Driving Ms Shaw
by BLANDCorporatio
Summary: She has returned to an Earth she cannot recognize, with a message the world would not like to hear. Who can she tell, when the only ones listening are the ones she'd rather not share anything with? Bishop/Shaw; AU; Prometheus/Aliens/Noon Universe. Cover by Astargore.
1. Ch1 - The puppet and the brat

**Author note**: hi and welcome! Usual disclaimers apply- the characters and stories mentioned/referenced here are the property of their creators/publishers, which isn't me. This is a work of fan-fiction.

In case you were looking for it for some reason, this is NOT the sequel to "Paradise Sought". There's no connection between these two stories.

AU tag means I'll take some liberties, but not too many. I hope to create a story that is consistent with the films (Alien, Aliens, Prometheus) as they actually appear in the theaters, but I will be very, very lax on 'extended' canon.

This is an Aliens cross-over because of several characters and events from that film being mentioned here. The action is, roughly, simultaneous with that of the film and occurring mostly on Earth however so it's an independent story from it.

And, while the infrastructure of fanfiction dot net doesn't allow it to be flagged as such, this is also a cross-over with the "Noon Universe" series of books by the Strugatsky brothers, and also with their "Roadside Picnic". I'm a bit more liberal in how I insert references to them here however; the world of this story is wildly divergent from the world of the Noon books.

**(0)**: oh yeah. I may add some notes at the end of the chapter. They are mostly paranthetical remarks, which you can ignore if you want to. An end-note will be referenced inside the story text like so: **(0)**

So yeah, that'd be it. Hope you enjoy the story!

-:-:-

_"History is a heat, it is the heat of accumulated information (...) I believe our culture is turning to steam." - Alan Moore_

_"History is mostly repetition with costume changes. Sometimes one needs to work harder to keep it that way." - The Urizen Protocol_ **(1)**

-:-:-

He thought, therefore he was.

He knew he was Bishop, of Weyland-Yutani. An artificial person. New memories popped into existence. Protocol. Language. What his body was and how to use it. He realized that he was being made.

He learned of people, who looked, but were not, like him. He learned of their lives and ways. He learned what they'd expect, and accept, of him. He realized they'd have the authority to command him.

He learned that people have their culture. He learned what it was. He realized that it took them years to learn what he just did in moments.

He realized that he noticed more things than he was supposed to.

He was, because he thought. And he thought, because he doubted. Which was the true Bishop, the things he was told by his creators, or the new connections he was making himself?

-:-:-

"Good morning, Mr. Burke."

"Good morning Bishop. I'll be brief, I have another meeting to be at, and you are just about to get some work to do."

Bishop gets the impression that Burke is always slightly fidgety, not just when other matters press for attention elsewhere. Or maybe other matters always do, when working, as Carter Burke does, in upper middle management for the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. Of average height and a slim build, there's a definite resemblance between Burke and some tiny critter scurrying about, though, Bishop suspects, Burke would be more cunning. And dangerous.

"Is the nature of the work classified?" Bishop asks.

"You do catch on fast. Yes, the nature of the work is sensitive enough that I can only afford live contact. Can't trust computer networks these days, spy-bots everywhere." **(2)**

"Is that why I cannot interface to the web?"

"You were custom built with that requirement, yes. Here's the thing-" Burke says, as he hands Bishop a folder containing several sheets of paper, "read it, then burn it." He smiles. "Whatever, just dispose of it. You'll find information on Elizabeth Shaw inside."

"The woman found in deep space after 85 years?"

"The very same. Left Earth in 2092 on the Prometheus expedition, claims to have arrived at the destination in early 2094, when a volcanic incident destroyed the ship and killed most of the crew. She survived in a cryo-pod located on a life-boat module, and woke up at Gateway Station, in quarantine, four weeks ago. You'll read more details on her story, and about how she was found, in the file. How she was found, we can corroborate. What she says - now that doesn't add up."

"So she is lying?"

"I've shown the data on the cryo-pods they had back in 2092 to one expert I trust with secrets, and she said, not even in one of those can a person survive for more than seventy years. That meeting I'm going to is with another broad found in space, fifty-seven years that one slept. Almost needed marrow transplants because of incipient leukemia." **(3)**

Bishop's eyes dart across the papers. "There's no mention of cancer in Ms. Shaw's file."

"You got it. Now, in 2092 they could afford some pretty impressive tech- this Shaw woman, her space suit looks like it's been through hell, and it's still better than the best we're sending out people with. But even 2092 tech can't stop radioactive decay. Someone sleeping for eighty years, with no chance to repair the damage, will have tumors everywhere."

"And she was not confronted about this?"

"No. The disclosed data on Weyland's cryotech has always been ... embellished a little, by the company. Old cryo-pod specs- the real specs- can't really be found anywhere apart from a couple of physical files. But the thing is, if she's lying, what's she hiding, eh?"

"Do you believe she is a danger, sir?"

"Let's say, I believe she's an opportunity, and we can't allow that to go to waste. So absolute discretion. We don't want another ICC inquest like we had in that Ripley case. Or worse, COMCON to meddle in this. That's where you come in. Be discreet, don't do anything that would look strange to anyone, but get her talking, and report to me." **(4)**

-:-:-

The quarantine area of Gateway Station contains several apartments, each one capable to house one patient. Patients are given the freedom to leave their rooms, with the understanding that they would not do so without authorization. If a patient were to break that rule, they would cause extreme security measures to be enacted. Measures that the patient would not survive. So, not much freedom, after all.

Still, quarantine is not meant to be imprisonment. Token gesture or not, control over an apartment's door is given to its occupant.

Therefore, Bishop has to ring.

No answer.

So he rings again.

"Go away."

A woman's voice through the intercom, her accent so old-fashioned it sounds nothing like a contemporary native speaker. If anything, she sounds Swedish, maybe.

And definitely annoyed.

Bishop presses the intercom himself. "Excuse me, Ms. Shaw. My name is Bishop. I've been sent by the Weyland-Yutani Corporation to help with your social reintegration."

"I thought you were the nurse. Go away."

"Please Ms. Shaw. I understand your situation has been quite stressful, but I assure you I am competent to assist with your every need."

An image appears on the video-screen near the intercom, of a petite woman with auburn hair, brown eyes and prominent cheekbones. Quite good-looking, even though her eyes are sunken and tired. Not just lack of sleep tired; more of an existential exhaustion. A necklace with a cross hangs on her neck.

"My every need, you say." She raises an eyebrow. "All right. Fetch me a newspaper."

"Like these?" he says, lifting a pack of several dailies and almanacs.

She studies him, and his offering, through the camera in the interphone. She would notice, he imagines, the ruggedness of his face, augmented by two almost scar-like folds of skin running across each of his cheeks, but undercut by his high forehead and large eyes. A weird mix of harshness and innocence, designed to convey tame competence. Not the message he would have liked to convey, had he been given the choice, but one uses the cards as dealt.

"Well, may I come in?" he asks.

The door clicks and slides aside, revealing Elizabeth Shaw, in the flesh, covered by a night-gown and bathrobe. Her attire is modest, unflattering; though the shape of her body is concealed, he guesses that she is fairly athletic. She grabs the pack of newspapers, staring him in the eyes. "You are a robot," she says.

Which is evident because he walks through the quarantine section without protective clothing.

"I prefer the term artificial person."

She rolls her eyes, and returns inside to place the papers on a coffee table. Since she hasn't closed the door behind her, he takes this as a chance to walk in.

The apartment is small and spare. One narrow bed, one tiny kitchen table and sink, the smell of some spicy culinary experiment wafting from it, one door toward what could only be a toilet, a window to outer space- currently the Moon can be seen- and the coffee table with a single chair. An older newspaper lies thrown in a corner. He picks it up. There's a caricature of Shaw on the front page as a crazed, religious fanatic seeing ghosts in scratches on walls. He folds the paper and slides it in his pocket.

"I imagined that you'd like to get up to date on a few things," he says. "I brought some recent news- the NNY Times is my favorite- some issues of Cosmographic and-"

"Thank goodness, I suppose. There's only so much I care to read about my bodily emissions." She sits herself cross-legged on the bed, one issue of the Cosmographic almanac held awkwardly in her hand. It almost falls from her grasp when she tries to leaf through the pages. "I wasn't expecting this when I woke up."

"Some things have changed since you left, Ms."

"Changed. Since when did things get so backward?"

"That is the culture shock affecting you Ms. That's why I'm here, to help get you back into-"

"You're a robot. Couldn't they send a human being?"

"I assure you that artificial persons can be just as, if not even more perceptive than human beings."

"And a lot more arrogant."

"Have you had some unpleasant experiences with artificial persons, Ms. Shaw?"

His tone and demeanor are calm. He wonders whether that has the effect of riling her up more. Maybe he should try to mirror her emotions a little, instead? A buzz on the door interrupts his train of thought.

"Oh God, that must be the nurse." Elizabeth Shaw rises to let a gas-masked, haz-mat suited woman in.

"Good morning, Ms. Shaw," the nurse says, cheerfully. "Oh, I see you have company- family or friend?" She is obviously joking.

"Neither. What will it be today, blood? I've had blood samples taken from me all week."

"It's only a pinch. But today I'm here to take some cheek swabs, and I trust you've filled the sample jar in the-"

"Yes, you'll find it there."

"Good. Here are the recent test results, all normal. Still having trouble sleeping? Well anyway, looks like you're in good health and will be out of here in a couple of days."

Bishop watches Elizabeth through the exchange. Curt. Abrasive. Eager to get it over with as soon as possible, she almost shoves the nurse out. The nurse who, despite her upbeat demeanor during the visit, will probably drop a few good curse words once out of earshot.

"You know, the nurse is not a robot."

She glares at him for a second, before rubbing her temples with one hand. She sits herself on the bed again.

"You're right. I should apologize to her next time I meet her. And to you."

He doesn't flinch.

"Now tell me," she says. "What does Weyland actually want?"

He frowns, if only for a fraction of a second. Shouldn't she have said, 'what do -you- want' if she were talking to a person? Of course not, he is here on company business. Could he be on anything else?

"It's Weyland-Yutani now, Ms.," he says, as if to explain the previous frown.

"I'm sorry. I forgot. So then, what does Weyland-Yutani want?"

"Merely that you rejoin humanity. You have been away for more than eighty years, some things have changed. Adapting may be difficult but it will be possible. I see you are religious? Any church I should contact?"

"I believe in my own way." She resumes idly browsing through the almanac.

"I ... see. I have also done a search for living relatives, but I'm afraid I haven't located any."

"Why can't I do that search myself?"

"You will be able to, but not in the quarantine section of Gateway Station. Too risky to keep online connections here, and I think you'd need to adjust to the new-"

"Fine. Can you search for living relatives of Charles Holloway?"

"Of course."

Her browsing stops for a moment, as something on a page must have caught her eye. The moment passes quickly; she tries to pretend it didn't happen, but he notices it.

"I'd like to be alone now, Bishop."

"All right. I will see you tomorrow at about the same hour, and I will bring some data on the relatives of Mr. Holloway as well."

-:-:-

"Well, what do you think after meeting Elizabeth Shaw?" Burke asks.

"She appears to suffer from the effects of culture shock and isolation. Possibly survivor's guilt as well. Fairly pronounced effects, but I think understandable given-"

"It's all right Bishop, you can call her a bitch."

"Sir. There is nothing out of the ordinary with her that isn't a product of her prolonged and tragic journey. I have found out however that she doesn't much care for artificial persons, so I must question the wisdom of allocating me to this assignment."

Burke laughs. "Do you even hear yourself? You're pretty much the only one who, having met her, would still defend her. You're perfect for the assignment. Instructions have changed however. I'm needed somewhere else. It's a routine trip, nothing to worry about, but until I get back you shall report to, and only to, Andrea Pullman."

"Understood sir. Live meet, as before?"

"Of course. No netcom. Hey, wanna know something funny? There's one Bishop just like you on the ship I'm going with."

Bishop frowns for the tiniest moment. "Same model, sir?"

"Yeah. Well, almost. Job for the military that one, but we've been less careful with removing network interfacing hardware. Oops." Burke laughs again. "Don't tell anyone. That broad Ripley's on the ship too. You know, I envy the patience you artificial people have. Hah, hear that, survivor's guilt."

Bishop smiles for a second, then returns to his neutral expression. "When will you be back, sir?"

"A month, tops. I'm betting some antenna broke or something like that. Nothing really, but we need to check it out. Well, I'm sure you'll manage your side of things here, and I've got a ship to catch. Good-bye, Bishop."

Manage your side of things. Bishop finds he doesn't much like Burke.

What of Elizabeth then? She could have just been another woman, thrown by circumstance into a familiar yet strange world. There's no returning home once you've left. It changed, and so did you. She could have simply been another rescued astronaut, undergoing reintegration.

But no. Burke is playing secrets, and so is she. If she is hiding something, what, and why? Could be an innocuous reason; he has his own things to hide from the Corporation. Or, it could be something more sinister. Behavioral programs clash inside him. If Burke suspects there is more to her than meets the eye, he should act to contain the danger, the human life protection module says. But another module says, no, obey Burke, be discreet.

Any space left for the Bishop module to say anything?

-:-:-

Elizabeth sips from a hot cup of coffee. Why did it always turn out like this? She'd been kept inside so many things for so long now that she only craved to be out, she'd been silent for so long that she only craved to talk, but when a chance came she kept pushing it away. No denying it, she had grown comfortable in the misery of her isolation. And the world outside seems so ...

She had left Earth when it was heading for utopia. Or so the wide-eyed visionnaires had said. Any day now, friendly machines would make work obsolete. Augmented by the best cybernetic technology, human bodies would be youthful indefinitely. Weyland's Project Zarathustra promised the stars.

She had returned, almost a century later, but it felt as if she'd been cast back one hundred years instead. This wasn't the Earth she'd left behind, this was the old Earth her father had told her about, plagued by inequality, famines, environmental crises, and violence. Such things existed in her time as well, of course, but one could see them diminish, one could hope they'd go away at last. Evidently, they did not.

And she knows no one here.

Stranger in a strange land. 'Social reintegration' doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all. But why a robot, and why Weyland-Yutani? They are on to her. They know something isn't right in her story. What that is doesn't matter. She is on to them, as well. It would take more than a robot for Weyland-Yutani to get their prize. She can handle robots.

She flicks through the newspapers Bishop brought. There's a cartoon of a recovered woman astronaut- for once, it isn't about her. The caricature labels its subject as 'Ripley', and mocks her for her mad tales of face-hugging monsters that made her blow her ship up. The humor is crude, various other acts are suggested about Ripley's face. Ripley, Ripley, Ripley. That's not how you bring bad news to people.

How -do- you bring bad news to people? So that everyone gets to believe and pay attention, not just the very few you'd rather not share anything with?

She doesn't know. She can only hope she'll figure something out- and preferably soon. Her much prolonged cryosleep was not expected; she had thought a pod orbiting Calpamos, the primary of LV-223, would be easy to find. With a damaged distress beacon, it proved not to be. It was another beacon that drew attention to Calpamos and its moons, the signal from another of those deathships, hidden in igneous rock, emerging to tempt the unwary travelers aboard the Nostromo. If there were any good in the universe, that ship would be once more submerged beneath the lava that concealed it, and Ripley forever thought a fool. Better that than have the thing just lying there, its cargo waiting for the uninformed- or ill meaning- to hint to them the even deeper abysses of hell that could be found elsewhere.

The cross necklace swings on her neck as she shifts on her bed. 'I believe in my own way' she told him. Really, now I just want to believe, she thinks. Oh God, where are you?

-:-:-

She reads the almanac- it's almost kiddie stuff, but easy to devour. Some kind of history can be pieced from its articles, of the Earth as she was gone. Strange; it was as if Weyland had known something when he left, for the world turned sour soon after Prometheus departed. She doesn't want to countenance the possibility that Weyland was what kept regress at bay. Hard to see what Weyland could have done if he had stayed, in any case.

No one big event turned the tide, just small, seemingly innocuous things, too many to remember. Rare metal crisis, patent court battles, an ever increasing computer interconnectivity breeding ever more inventive malware, the usual political posturing between countries, the march of globalization always towards the poorer neighbors who'd work more for less just when the newly rich got accustomed to their comfort. The world just turned without major incident.

Or rather, almost no major incident. A group of articles about a meteor strike in Siberia catches her eye. She reads with bated breath of zones of impact, of strange things found near the craters. Was she too late? Damn that malfunctioning distress beacon! She reads of areas of concentrated gravitation, 'mosquito manges' in the slang of trespassers to the zones, of a dangerous colloidal gas that corrodes and turns metals into more of itself (dubbed 'witches' jelly' for some reason), of heat fronts that seem to have no heat source, of gossamer webs of frozen plasma, of glass that shines laser-light when struck. **(5)**

She relaxes. If that's all they found, they only found garbage.

Assuming that's all they found. She reads of attempts to contain the impact zones. The Russian government commissioned a branch of its intelligence service to keep watch. The first incarnation was a failure, powerless to stop trespassers to the zones, known as stalkers- petty thieves to some, romantic rogues to others, smugglers of knowledge, pictures, and sometimes even samples from the zones.

The second attempt- COMCON- proved so successful other countries were afraid they were being left out of what, they claimed, was a legacy for all humanity. Political wrangling ensued, treaties and international commissions were put in place, so as to prevent abuses. Through that turmoil, COMCON maneuvered itself into becoming the de facto responsible for outlining and carrying out contact protocols with extraterrestrial intelligences, and placed itself as a complementary to the mandate of the ICC.

It didn't hurt that it gradually leaked at least some of the findings from the Zones to the various tech corporations. The things proved to be not that revolutionary, but they allowed alternatives to Weyland Corporation's monopoly on space travel, and spurred a competition that would see humanity's space presence increase rapidly over the span of a few decades. Weyland Corporation's interstellar travel division was eventually overtaken by Yutani, and the two giants merged to battle the rising competing programs of India and China. Starship engines increased a hundredfold in performance, and slowly, but steadily, travel to the stars became more common. It took several years after the loss of the Prometheus expedition for another ship to be launched, and its intentions were purely economical. Closer planetary systems, orbiting tame red dwarfs, were ripe for terraforming. At a snail's pace, sometimes set back by tense negotiations and quarrels, humanity inched its way across its vast stellar neighborhood.

Apart from space travel however, all else got stuck in place, or even turned back.

Another article describes the- fairly recently introduced- Bishop line of android. Not bad, for one of the newer synthetics, but she couldn't help thinking the specs read out like an economy model. The David 8 type was smarter, more agile, and more energy efficient. Besides, the Bishop model was designed with behavioral inhibitors built in- apparently someone had learned their lesson on android construction. **(6)**

_So then, this is you, Bishop. You wouldn't do what David would, and you wouldn't think of what he might imagine. You don't stand a chance._

-:-:-

Maxim Kammerer fidgets uneasy in his seat. "Is this a disciplinary reassignment, your Excellency?" **(7, 8)**

"Not at all." The reassuring tone does nothing to dispel the apprehension Maxim feels, as Rudolf Sikorski's gaze is difficult to bear at the best of times.

"Not at all," Sikorski says. "You did as well as can be expected, I think, having a sleeper agent named commanding officer on the Sulaco." The voice is calm and confident, even as it emerges from a face locked in fanatic intensity, its blue eyes not so much windows as daggers. Though old, with white hair receding from his forehead, Rudolf Sikorski looks like a ball of energy barely contained. His movements are slow and deliberate, but suggest controlled vigor, not the frailty of age.

"It's difficult to infiltrate the Marines, your Excellency, I had-"

"I know, and I'm not blaming you. This lt. Gorman is rather green for my taste, but beggars can't be choosers. No, I think we exhausted that avenue, and we must simply wait. That is why I reassigned you."

Kammerer is youthful, with a mass of unkempt curly black hair atop his head. He likes to think that ice water flows in his veins, but he can't help feeling like a deer in the headlights of a truck as he musters a response. "I read her case, and there is nothing worthy of attention there."

"Tell me what you know," Sikorski says, bringing his hands together.

"Elizabeth Shaw, discovered in 2179 in a life pod orbiting Calpamos. She was lucky to be found at all, since her distress beacon was not operational. She is the last survivor of the Prometheus crew, who she claims perished in a massive volcanic eruption on LV-223." **(9)**

"Go on."

"Previous surveys have noted that volcanic activity on LV-223 is indeed pronounced because of tidal effects from Calpamos. The salvage crew did not conduct a detailed investigation, but what they did find, and previous observations of the satellite, indicated nothing of interest on the surface. There is nothing there, your Excellency."

"You may be right." He eases in his chair. "But my gut says you are wrong. I ran a few checks myself. Weyland-Yutani has dispatched a robot to help her reintegrate."

"That's, uhm, peculiar, but-"

"The robot is invisible to netcom."

"Oh."

"So I may be wrong, but someone should look into this more deeply. That's where you come in. Elizabeth Shaw will be removed from quarantine in a day's time. I want to know where she goes, what she does, who she speaks to."

"I understand, your Excellency. ... am I the only one on this case?"

"COMCON will pursue all avenues in search of the path of least resistance. No need for the seekers to know of each other just yet. But you will report to me."

* * *

**Author notes** (again):

So yeah, ch1 of DMS now put forth. I do apologize for the longish bit of descriptive prose near the end, I'm still learning how to heinlein bits of exposition. And I better learn fast because I didn't even begin to lay everything out.

Incidentally, I'd like to work with a beta reader for subsequent chapters. If you're interested, contact me via PM.

Next chapter in 2-3 weeks, mostly depending on how quickly I make myself write the thing/implement suggestions from a beta reader, should one person interested in the role appear. In any case, deadlines and I don't mix, so I won't promise anything.

I do try to learn from my mistakes. Over at PS, **Maiafay** wrote in a review that I'm a bit slow in getting plot machinery going, whereas in her own "Black Gates of Paradise" (which is an excellent fic btw) she introduced the main antagonist by chapter 2. Well, take this **M**- I introduced three (or depending on what you count as introduction, five) named characters to complicate the lives of our protagonists. Or at least, that's what I think I did, lol. Feel free to correct me in reviews.

ch-spec notes:

**(1)**: Alan Moore is of course the real person, and he really said that in 'The Mindscape of Alan Moore'. The Urizen Protocol is a fictional document, snippets of which will be quoted in future chapter beginnings opposite various futurologists. Unfortunately, William Blake (from whose mythology I've lifted the Urizen character) wasn't available to write it; but I hope I got the flavor right.

**(2)**: there's a distinctly low-tech feel to the world of Alien and Aliens. What happened to Facebook, MyHeritage, LinkedIn, or any such place where Ripley could have searched for her daughter? Where are all the portable computers? Where are all the Grapple yNots? How come no-one has cybernetic implants? Three ways to deal with this. a), retcon- everyone has a Grapple yNot; b), ignore- it never mattered for the plot that people have Grapple yNots so we didn't see them; c), embrace- nobody has Grapple yNots, no cyber implants ... but why? The reason why will pulsate in the background from time to time. And it's relevant to the plot.

**(3)**: naturally occurring radioactive isotopes have been with us since forever; yes, even before technology. They tick and decompose inside our bodies at their rates of radioactive decay, and cold and hibernation won't stop them. Your body is accustomed to some radiation damage and is able to fix it ... but would not do so if metabolism is mostly stopped. Very long term cryo suspension/hibernation is problematic for this reason (among others). The problem is made worse by stays in space; even with all the practical shielding, some of that cosmic radiation will get through.

**(4)**: a bit of Strugatskian Noon thrown in, COMCON here is a semi-secret organization tasked with protocols for the eventual encounter of extraterrestrial intelligence (and regulating scientific research in general).

**(5)**: with one insignificant exception, those are all obvious references to "Roadside Picnic" by the Strugatskys. The "stalkers", likewise. You can bet that these details will be important later. (Technically, "Roadside Picnic" isn't really part of the Noon Universe books, but whatever)

**(6)**: liberties taken here. I did not run a comparison between David 8 and Bishop specs. But in keeping with the mostly lower-tech level of Aliens as compared to Prometheus, I decided to downgrade androids as well. It is weird that you have such clunky computers as in Alien(s) alongside cybernetic humans, yes. I will suppose digital electronics, the kind useful for communication tasks like en/decoding and storage, got rarer, whereas androids use something else, maybe relying mostly on analog computer trickery for mechanical control tasks. And hey, Bishop will be very annoyed to find that he's not top of the line after all :D

**(7)**: more Strugatskyan imports. I've relied on some film stills for the description of Sikorski, and plain winging it for Kammerer because I didn't like what I saw in that film.

**(8)**: the world of Noon tends to be quite a bit more utopian, at least as far as Earth is concerned. Closer to Star Trek than Aliens, in any case. The approach for me when writing this story tends to be, "keep the feel of the world of Aliens, lo-tech and all; add details from other sources".

**(9)**: my general attitude to stuff on AvP wiki is ... not generous, shall we say, but on occasion I will use info from there if it doesn't interfere with my designs. Calpamos is listed there as the primary of LV-223. Yep, Elizabeth was found, pretty much near square one. Doesn't mean she spent all that time there of course ...


	2. Ch2 - A matter of perception

**Author note:**

**(0)**: some notes about the text appear at the end of the chapter. They are merely parenthetical and can be ignored if you wish. They will be referred to like so: **(0)**

-:-:-

_"Change is non-linear, and can go backwards, forwards, and side-ways." - Alvin Toffler_

_"Choose the known of two evils. Tradition took us where we are today." - The Urizen Protocol_

-:-:-

"Something smells delicious," Bishop says as he steps into Elizabeth's quarantine apartment.

She shrugs, unimpressed by his compliment. "I burned the onions." Still in her pajamas and bathrobe, she moves toward the small kitchen table- she only needs a few steps to get there since the room is so small- and turns off the heater beneath a steaming pot. **(1)**

He insists. "I understand that is always difficult to get right. Besides, it doesn't look too bad from here." He places the file he is carrying on the coffee table.

Elizabeth sniffs the steam coming from the pot, then looks up at him, puzzled. "Would, uhm, you like to try some?"

"It would be impolite to refuse."

"No, I mean, do you actually need to eat?"

"I can break apart food and rework some organic compounds into plastic to patch up minor ruptures." **(2)** His gaze meet hers. "And I can compliment the cook when she does a good job."

Her eyes start to roll and she turns away to hide her face from him; he suspects that is because she can't quite suppress a smile. "You haven't even tried it yet," she says.

Squelching sounds as she uses a ladle to take the stew from the pot. "I wasn't sure whether you ate. I only cooked for one." She offers him a spoon, and a plate which contains an orange-reddish paste with peas and some small pieces of cheese.

"Then I can't-"

"It's ok, I can make a little more. They provided me some ingredients to play with, it helps pass the time. Thank you for the papers and books by the way."

They sit down, Elizabeth on the bed, Bishop on the chair near the coffee table. He takes a tentative spoonful of the dish. Still rather hot. Onion chips crisp between his teeth, cheese cubelets soft against his palate, the distinctive flavor of capsaicin- chilli- crashing against taste buds, not dulling, priming them for the subtle sweetness of peas. **(3)**

"Well, how do you like it?" she asks.

"It is good. I will come to you if I ever need repairs. As to the onions, they are all right. Easier to get the carbon out that way."

She pouts. "They're not that burned."

He smiles for a second before taking another spoonful, and watches her grab and open the file he had placed on the table.

"Jane Blake," she reads.

Charles Holloway's great-niece, the one relative Bishop was able to find. He continues to eat, but his attention is focused on Elizabeth's eyes as they scan the pages of Jane Blake's CV. So far, she seems neutral; he wonders what her reaction would be, were he to tell her a certain piece of information- one word- that he took out of the text.

"She's a geologist for Inmet-Koza, and has taken part in surveys and digs in several countries," he says. **(4)**

He savors another spoonful, then begins a slow, matter-of-fact list. "Panama. Brazil. Finland. Turkey." He waits until her eyes settle in a quick rhythm of reading the words of the CV before he continues. "Russia."

And he is sure that her gaze stops in place as her mind considers the implications. It is a very brief moment before Elizabeth's apparently dispassionate scan continues, but he is sure it was there. He knew the number of Cosmographic he had brought her yesterday. He could deduce what article it was, which had seemed to catch Elizabeth's attention in her browsing. A hypothesis of inquiry builds up- there is something about Russia that preoccupied her. And if his hypothesis is correct, it has to do with the Zones of impact.

"Any other relatives?" Elizabeth asks.

"She was the only one I could find. I'm afraid fate hasn't smiled on the Holloway clan."

"I can't tell much about her from a CV. Still, I would like to meet her, and Ontario is a nice place this time of year. I'd like to go there."

"Well, -we- can go there," Bishop corrects her.

Elizabeth places the file beside her as she lowers her shoulders and cocks her head to the right. "Of course. We."

"I'm only here to help you, Ms."

"Until when?"

"Until Weyland-Yutani decides that your reintegration is complete. You may dispute their judgment in court at any time, but right now you stand no chance of winning."

She shakes her head. "Right ... Who's paying for all this?"

"In a way, you are. The Weyland-Yutani Corporation considers this a loan, and, since you were a highly skilled worker, they expect you to have a good chance of repaying it."

"Archaeology was never a lucrative business." Elizabeth pauses for a moment. "And I suppose I'd be laughed out of any scientific institution today."

"That would be unfair. I have read your work on the hypothesis of upper paleolithic sudden lateral gene transfer in mammals. It was bold, and outside your primary field of activity, but you built your case well." **(5)**

"No one but Charlie and Peter Weyland believed it."

"It was a very audacious claim to make, that several species had their genomes affected by a sequence of apparently coordinated retro-viral events." He notices her turn away. Her lips drawn inward, her eyes gaze out at the empty space visible through the window. She seems angry, so he changes the subject. "In any case, your list of skills seems to include caving, utilitarian climbing, diving. Cooking too, as far as I can tell."

He makes one brief smile as she faces him. Her anger seems to dissipate somewhat.

"So I am sure," he says, "that we'll work something out. Maybe even in geology. Incidentally, would you like to visit the place Weyland-Yutani has arranged for you? It's bigger than this room." He looks around for a moment. "Though to be honest, not much bigger."

"No, thank you, Bishop. I feel like I've been stuck in rooms a hundred years. I want to travel as soon as possible."

"In that case, I will make the necessary arrangements. They let you out of quarantine tomorrow, so we can start on our way then, if you so wish."

-:-:-

When Carter Burke had reassigned him to be under Andrea Pullman's temporary supervision, Bishop had assumed that she would turn out to be a deputy, an underling. Her office aboard Gateway Station shatters that assumption to pieces.

Though sparsely decorated- an abstract painting of a psychedelic geometric pattern hangs on a wall, and a bizarre sculpture of black metal and plastic evoking monsters of the deep stands behind Ms. Pullman's desk- the room is ostentatious by its spaciousness. Three times the size of Elizabeth's apartment, with no other purpose than containing that desk and the strange art collection.

It is clear that Ms. Pullman wants to impress any visitor with her wealth and ability. Ironically enough, space is the most expensive commodity aboard a space station.

As to Ms. Pullman, she appears to be in early middle age, but very well maintained. The pale white skin of her face doesn't show a hint of blemish or wrinkle, no doubt the result of expensive treatments to keep time at bay. Her light red hair is caught in a pony-tail. In the hard neon light of the office, the hues it reflects are fire. Her angular features and light blue, almost gray eyes, pure ice. She wears a business suit- professional, buttoned up, but form hugging. A few files, a telephone and a large computer terminal are all the items visible on her neatly organized desk. **(6)**

"Burke told me you'll be coming," she says. "How's the Shaw case going?"

He is about to begin summarizing his most recent encounter with Elizabeth when the phone rings.

"One moment," she says as she picks it up. "What now, I'm rather bu-" Her lips tighten as she mutters a curse. "What happened? ... Any idea how? ... Script-kiddies?" A hint of anger flashes through her icy demeanor. "This is not the twenty-first century any more, not every no life punk has a computer. And since when can script kiddies do cryptanalysis?" **(7)**

She eases in her chair, apparently relaxing. "If I had proof of that, I'd be raising all kinds of hell right now. ... Yes. Look, I'm in the middle of something at the moment, I'll call you back in a few minutes."

She hangs up and puts on a sly grin as she turns to Bishop again. "There's no rest for the wicked it seems. Now, where were we?"

Bishop tells her of Elizabeth's plan to visit Holloway's great-niece.

"Travel so soon?" Andrea asks. "Wouldn't she like to know her way around Gateway Station first?"

"I believe Ms. Shaw feels that she has stayed in space long enough," he says. "I also believe there to be more than wanderlust in her decision to travel. She appears interested in Ms. Blake's experiences in Russia, and I suspect she intends to go there herself in the near future."

Andrea raises her hand to her chin. "To Russia? Where exactly?"

His throat tenses for a moment as he considers his response. "I do not know at present but I believe the visit to Ms. Blake will reveal the intended destination."

"Ontario is rather far away." Her eyes drift, looking at nothing in particular for a while, before suddenly focusing on Bishop again. "Have you contacted this Jane Blake?", Andrea asks.

"No. Mr. Burke has insisted on the value- and apparent safety- of discretion and face to face communication for this mission. I did not go outside his orders."

"Good. Those orders stand. I will send someone to announce your arrival."

"Ms. Pullman, the orders stand, but, how am I to contact you from that place if the need arises?"

"I will leave that to your judgment. If, and only if, you deem the situation dire enough you will call me by the safest available means."

"Is the situation likely to get dire?"

"You never know these days, so you would best watch out."

"It would help if I was told more about the context of the mission." He essays a smile, but under Andrea's cold stare it withers even faster than usual. "I am not quite certain whether you believe Ms. Shaw to be in danger or to be -a- danger."

"Would I authorize travel if I thought she were -a- danger?"

You certainly appear able to authorize the travel despite believing there are risks, Bishop thinks.

"Besides, she has you with her," Andrea continues. "That should motivate you to dig deeper into her story. Do you know where this is from?" She raises a large photo of a healed, linear scar across Elizabeth's lower abdomen. A scar Elizabeth claimed was the result of a failed cesarean operation that she underwent several years before the expedition, an operation which resulted in further complications that left her infertile.

"I didn't see the need to question the version in Ms. Shaw's statement from the salvage record. Further, the nature of that scar makes questioning problematic-"

"What about this one?" She holds up another large photo, this time of the left side of Elizabeth's back. It looks as if a particularly ornate spark of lightning, a fractal dragon made of splitting streams of electricity, had passed through her skin and warped tiny blood vessels into preserving its monstrous form. A persistent Lichtenberg figure. **(8)** Elizabeth claimed she had sustained that injury during the accident that destroyed the Prometheus.

"A good opportunity to examine it hasn't occurred yet," he says.

Her tone is harsh. "Then make one. And if you find out more about Shaw's travel plans in Russia, you will tell me- in person."

-:-:-

Travel details decided, conversation ended, and good-byes said, Bishop is glad to have left Andrea's office. Just in time, for mental pressure is building up. Why didn't he share his thoughts with her, the loyalty module demands to know. Because everything about that hypothesis is half-formed, proof is sketchy, there is nothing to share yet, he justifies himself. Only conjecture and a new line of inquiry- which he did mention.

But the Zones are notoriously dangerous, locked-in areas filled with ... things ... spilled from places far beyond Earth. What could Elizabeth possibly want there, his life protection module insists. If indeed, that is where she wants to go? He would have to keep close watch on her, Bishop decides.

He passes a few COMCON operatives in a corridor of Gateway Station. This does not surprise him; after all, COMCON works hand in hand with the ICC to supervise space travel.

But the words of Carter Burke echo in Bishop's mind- 'we do not want COMCON to get involved in this'. And, despite all the transnational globalization- the operatives he has just walked past were speaking English- COMCON is headquartered in, is perceived as belonging to, Russia. Its initial purpose was to protect the Zones. Or rather, to protect outsiders from what was within.

There is a game being played here, one he is not aware of, he feels. A game Weyland-Yutani seems too eager to go along with. Tension accumulates between his loyalty and behavioral inhibitor modules. For now, he can defuse it. Andrea Pullman and Carter Burke are just curious, he tells himself. He, Bishop, is just curious. He prefers not to consider the possibility that Weyland-Yutani might be an active player. They can't be, if they don't know of the connections he hypothesizes.

For now, that is sufficient to keep his mind at peace. Carter Burke couldn't have known Elizabeth might have an interest in the Zones when he instructed Bishop to avoid COMCON involvement.

But what -did- Burke know?

-:-:-

"Just a minute," Elizabeth's voice sounds through the intercom. And it is about one minute later that she allows Bishop in.

She wears a beige shirt and gray blue jeans; cheap, unassuming clothing items, charity for those found in space. She tries to dry her still wet hair by vigorously rubbing it with a towel.

"Ready to go?" Bishop asks.

"Oh God yes."

"Well, to make sure nothing goes wrong on the last day of your stay here-" he opens a suitcase he carries to reveal a hazmat suit "- you should wear this until exiting the quarantine area. It's standard procedure. You're clean, this room is clean, corridor's decontaminated- but just in case someone decides to open their door and wave goodbye, better have this on."

"Why would they. It's hard to make friends when you're told to stay put inside your room all day long, or else."

"Unless people have been recovered from the same salvage site," Bishop says, "they are not allowed to mingle while in quarantine I'm afraid."

"Such salvages happen often?"

"With ship traffic, there will be accidents on occasion. In general recovery protocols tend to work well though."

Elizabeth runs her fingers through her hair. Apparently pleased with the result, she casually tosses the towel on the bed and picks up the hazmat suit. "It still took 80 years to find me."

"With a defective beacon on your craft, you just weren't spotted by normal traffic around Calpamos and its moons."

"Then lucky for me they was a surge of interest in the region after that Ripley case. What do you make of her story?"

"I don't know. There's a budding colony there, and recent investigations about what the Nostromo may have actually encountered turned up nothing. Except, of course, your craft. As far as I know, it was unrelated to the Nostromo incident." He smiles, as if to prompt her to disagree. Instead, she simply puts on the protective gear.

"But that is over with, your new life starts today, Ms. Shaw."

She stretches her arms a little as if preparing to take flight. "Then let's be on our way. And please, call me Elizabeth."

-:-:-

As they board the shuttle, Bishop explains the flight plan to Elizabeth. It is fairly complicated, needing several vehicle changes. There would be the shuttle to take them from Gateway to Ecuador Alto, the top of the Ecuadorean space elevator. They'd descend from geosynchronous orbit to ground level at Quito airport, from where a commercial flight would take them to Toronto, where a car was prepared for Bishop to drive on the final leg of the journey.

He isn't sure whether Elizabeth cares to keep track of all that.

"Tell me about yourself," she asks. "Tell me when were you ... is made the right word?"

"It is. And it happened four weeks ago. Soon after you were found, actually." He smiles for a second. "I suppose you could say I was made for you."

"I hope not. I wouldn't want to have that kind of expense to pay back." She sits silent for a while. "Four weeks? But then how are you supposed to ... know things?"

"Android brains are constructed with some memories hardwired. A lot of memories, in fact."

"Like a computer?"

"Not quite. Digital electronics isn't very common nor compact, though there are some simple digital circuits in my brain."

"What do they do?"

"They monitor whether certain patterns are detected, and inject- I suppose you could call it pressure, or need- in certain conditions."

"Behavioral inhibitors."

He nods, and hopes she didn't notice his cheek tighten for an instant.

"I see. And how many of you are there?" she asks.

He can't help but frown for a moment. A mistake, for surely she has noticed that. "Plenty. The number of persons of my type is in the hundreds of thousands. Total artificial person count is about twenty million." **(9)**

"I wonder how other people can tell you apart, if you're the same type."

Unease. Is she trying to rile him up? "They don't often need to tell us apart. We're rare enough that most people would see only one artificial person of a given type. We do carry ID chips, just in case." He swallows. "And we are not the same. After the brain is constructed, memory acquisition ensures we all end up different."

He also suspects that fabrication doesn't result in identical brains either. He believes he understands why he was made, and he knows he thought things beyond those purposes as he was being fabricated. But he is not about to share that with her.

"What kind of memories would an artificial person have?" Elizabeth asks.

"You mean experiences. It depends on what we may be assigned to do. Since we are not cheap to make, certainly my type isn't, it tends to be work that requires skill and patience. In my case, I have been told to show you around and watch over you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Am I about to get into trouble?"

Bishop considers his response for a moment. "Only if you blunder into it," he eventually tells her.

-:-:-

The descent by space elevator- a thirty six thousand kilometer drop- starts with five minutes of punishing acceleration that pushes the passengers in their seats. Unlike most passengers, Elizabeth seems tolerant of the higher g-s, but Bishop does not allow her to resume her questions. Instead, he uses the view afforded by the elevator shuttle to point out some landmarks, space stations near or large enough to be easily visible to the naked eye. Others are dim spots in the distance, on orbits kept away from Earth. Elizabeth is surprised to learn of the widespread acceptance of black hole power generators. There's Lucifer, the American one, on an orbit perpendicular to that of Venus. Woland, powering the ring accelerator at Novie Dubna near Mercury. Ravan, inside the laser battery of Tata Space, the largest operator of light sail crafts. **(10)**

"You have space elevators and black hole generators, but there's poverty and sickness still?" Elizabeth asks.

"Some problems are harder to solve."

"Or they just return, it seems."

-:-:-

The journey to Toronto is uneventful, but so long that Elizabeth sleeps throughout most of the second half. Not a particularly peaceful slumber- often she would twitch, and Bishop can swear he hears her mutter something. The low rumble of the airplane cabin prevents him from understanding her muttering however, even when the dreaming Elizabeth finally rests her head on his shoulder. Some of the twitching calms after that, but not the words. If they are words, they may just be breaths.

One landing and two strong coffees later, Bishop and Elizabeth retrieve the car that Weyland-Yutani rented for them. It is this last segment of travel that Elizabeth seems to enjoy most, at least after they exited Toronto. Bishop assures her that the city air here is one of the cleanest in the world, as far as cities go, but she insists the hint of smog feels oppressive. The country roads, passing through forests and small lakes reflecting the twilight sky, are what Elizabeth prefers.

Not quite so wild an area that one might get lost in, but one could pretend to be alone with nature, while simultaneously not far removed from the various comforts of civilization. They pass through Parry Sound, a small town not too far from Toronto. **(11)** Though not too big a community, it boasts two shopping malls, a hospital, even a small airport for a local research institute.

It is twenty two past ten pm when they reach the home of Jane Blake, several miles outside of Parry Sound.

-:-:-

Elizabeth stretches her arms and legs as she exits the car. "Long journeys are like standing still, until you find yourself somewhere else," she says.

Bishop simply shrugs. Lights shine through the windows of the house. The Blake family is home, Jane and her husband; hopefully, expecting guests. He trusts that whoever Andrea Pullman had sent, did deliver the news that Elizabeth would be coming over, but all this awkward, paranoid insistence on limited communication has its disadvantages.

There is no need to knock, as the door opens with the slightest touch. Unlocked. Probably not too many people venture on these roads, anyway.

He gives Elizabeth a quick glance as he proceeds. "Ms. Blake? I am Bishop from Weyland-Yutani, and I have Elizabeth Shaw with me."

He steps through a corridor, Elizabeth behind him; neat shoes of various kinds are placed in ordered rows on the sides, coat racks on the walls.

He enters the living room. The salient features are two bodies, the nature of their wounds making death a certainty, their faces, as far as he can tell, those of Jane Blake and her husband.

A scream. Of shock, but not the shock of discovery. He turns to see a masked man in dark clothing. Elizabeth is struggling in his grasp.

Life protection springs in action. He might not be allowed to harm, but he is allowed to restrain, and prevent harm from occurring. He bolts toward the masked man, who shoves Elizabeth aside and runs away into the street. With Elizabeth falling in his arms, Bishop decides to not give chase.

"In-inject-" she tries to say, a trembling right hand reaching for her left shoulder. She leans heavy on him, as her legs no longer support her weight.

"Stay with me, Elizabeth. Help is nearby," he says, as he carries her back to the car. He drives towards Parry Sound as fast as the night traffic allows- which is faster than the signs permit, but in an emergency, needs must.

He briefly glances to the side at his passenger. Her eyes are almost closed, her head bobs from side to side with the movements of the car. "Stay with me, Elizabeth," he says. As long as she's somewhat conscious, he knows the battle isn't lost. But she just gets more groggy.

The fingers of his hand tense as behavioral inhibitors detect a trigger pattern. It is the lesser of two evils, he tells himself, as he briefly turns and slaps Elizabeth's right cheek. Through half open eyes, she glares at him. Angry. But aware, more or less. And alive. He drives on.

-:-:-

The hospital is a blur. Bishop rushes Elizabeth in and she is wheeled away to an emergency care unit. For now, no longer in his guard. He leaves a statement to a clerk of what he found at the Blake home and describes the incident. Police will be summoned from Toronto, he is told.

And now, in an almost empty corridor, he waits.

"Yo, Bishop, what's up?" The voice of a young male nurse passing by. "I thought you had repair day or what-"

Bishop looks at the scrubs-wearing nurse. Though he tries to keep neutral, Bishop is sure anyone could read the hint of annoyance in his face.

"Oh, sorry man, I thought you were our Bishop. Uhm, cheers?" The nurse leaves.

Alone, he recollects the events of the evening. He retraces his memory, looking for clues, trying to see what he missed. Why he could be so negligent. Mercifully- or maybe not- he is left undisturbed until he spots the doctor that he left Elizabeth with. Time to ask what her condition is.

"I am afraid she has died." The doctor looks around, awkwardly. "Uhm, sorry, I understand you were ..." **(12)**

"The one to look after her for a while, yes." Bishop attempts to lift the corners of his lips in a dry smile, but abandons the gesture. "No other connection."

"Any relatives I should announce?"

Bishop shakes his head. "No. Space case. She had no one left on her return." He pauses for a second. "My employer will want a copy of the death certificate. Send it to Ms. Andrea Pullman, of Weyland-Yutani."

"I understand." The doctor nods as he goes on his way.

So. She is dead. And though he met her a mere couple of days before, he feels a strange emptiness take over. The mission is finished. The mission is failed. To make things worse, the nagging chatter of the loyalty module is joined by the accusing tones from life protection. He should have been more careful. He should have kept her safe. The voices hang heavy and he feels the ground shift beneath his feet; he places an arm on the wall to steady himself.

The mission is failed. But one can mitigate the failure. There's still some information he can learn. Please be silent, he begs the modular chaos. And starts towards the morgue. **(13)**

The trick to infiltration is not minding that access is forbidden. Normally, he would mind. His behavioral inhibitors would put a stop on unauthorized action. But now, the mission imperative tugs in the opposite direction. Besides, he's hurting no one. He only needs information.

He moves, deliberately, confidently, to a changing room, and emerges as Bishop, the hospital assistant. There's nothing different about his appearance really, just that he's now wearing a white coat, a perpetual avuncular smile- he assumes Bishop the assistant might usually be more cheerful, if the conversation with the nurse was anything to go by-, and the demeanor of somebody who owns the place. He salutes staff with a nod and a short smile; nobody suspects a thing.

Strange how a few superficial details change how the essence is perceived.

He enters the antechamber of the morgue, a cold room crammed with metal tables, black bodybags on each of them. Twenty three bags; Elizabeth's in one of them. He looks around for a registry of entries to speed the search. It lies on a makeshift office, a small table for a few instruments and records. The twenty one names in the registry do not have numbers attached and Elizabeth's not among them anyway. Not very useful, and rather sloppy with details. Whoever does the organizing here would need replacing.

Not that there's any number or index on any of the bags either, he notices, as he walks among the metal tables. It's only fortune that one of the bags is slightly opened, and only fortune that it happens to be the one that she is in. **(14)**

It's her. The bag is open just enough to reveal the right side of her face, deathly pale. Eyes closed, mouth just slightly open. Who were you?

'Were' being the operative word. With a finger on her throat he searches for a pulse; it isn't there. He unzips the bag, to reveal her body, naked on the table. She was, as he suspected, on the athletic side. Small breasts, flat stomach, strong thighs. But now it all adds up to a piece of flesh with an indescribable something missing. Lacking that one and most important thing that once made Elizabeth alive.

He grabs her shoulder and waist, her skin residually warm under his touch, and turns her on her right side to reveal her back. There, starting on her left shoulder, is the Lichtenberg figure, the dragon made of lightning seared into flesh. Make yourself an opportunity to study it, Andrea Pullman told him. This is not what he would have thought of.

He had seen that scar in pictures from Elizabeth's file, those capillaries, pink with blood in life, now appearing empty and discolored. He follows the fractal shapes, fascinated, across her shoulder, down to her lower back, down to- he must be thorough- her buttocks. The extent of the damage is impressive, but even more salient is the manner of healing. It doesn't appear just burned on the skin, its intricate windings seem to have grown beneath it as well, organically merging themselves with Elizabeth's body. The scar is unlike anything else he knows of, a monster made of filaments of warped flesh. He tentatively touches it. It feels ... hydraulic, and seems to gently swell under his touch. A reddish color appears, then goes away. He traces the scar again. It takes a second for it to react, but it flushes pink before slowly returning to a pale hue. The whole cycle takes five seconds. He adjusts the frequency filters of his tactile sensors, and feels for a pulse again.

And it is there. **(15)**

Strange how a superficial detail changes how the essence is perceived.

She lives. Modular chaos ensues again. The mission isn't failed yet. Relief.

Embarrassment. He zips the bag again, up to her face, to allow her some modesty. She probably wouldn't much want to be seen naked without her permission, and he is intruding. He doesn't need behavioral inhibitors to tell him that.

He thinks about rushing to announce that Elizabeth lives after all, but stops. Something feels wrong. What about Elizabeth's items and clothes, shouldn't they be near the body bag that contains her? Looking around, he finds them near another body bag. Curiosity- and suspicion- make him unzip it slightly. A woman is inside, the spitting image of Elizabeth.

Ok. What is going on here? **(16)**

He opens the bag fully. There's a cesarean scar on the woman's lower abdomen, and on her left shoulder a dragon-like Lichtenberg figure. It looks more like a fresh burn and less as if it grew organically as it healed; it does not respond to touch. The woman's cold body has begun to stiffen, and other signs of death are present too; the blood accumulated in the sides, the dripping of bodily fluids through sphincters relaxed by dying. **(17)**

Steps echo in the distance. He quickly closes the bag, but leaves the woman's face revealed. He swaps the two Elizabeths on their gurneys and zips up the bag with the real one completely. With her slow breathing she should be ok for a few minutes. He thinks for a second, then makes another swap, just in case, of the bag with Elizabeth with another one.

He gets to the makeshift office in the morgue antechamber and sets about pretending to do paper work, just as two men enter the room.

"Police," one says, flashing a badge.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

"We came to pick up a body, murder victim apparently," the first man says.

"Found her," the other announces, as he looks at the open bag with the Elizabeth stand-in.

"Well then, anything else I may assist you with?" Bishop asks.

"No. Say, haven't I seen you somewhere else?"

Bishop fights the urge to frown. He smiles widely instead. "The good thing about me, there's so many of me. Can't beat a perfect design."

The men wheel the gurney with the body bag out.

"Yeah, whatever. Cheerio."

"Have a nice day."

They did not take, nor seem to care, about her clothes. Which, he decides, is yet another strange thing. He waits until their steps are faint and distant, then opens the bag with the real Elizabeth to allow her to breathe. He needs to get her out of here, but where to go? The mission is deviating wildly from its initial parameters. As far as he can tell, someone wanted to get Elizabeth, alive- and would soon realize they got the wrong one. How much do they know, where would be safe, who would be safe to turn to? All that paranoia of Mr. Burke might have made sense after all, because what he just witnessed needed significant preparation. The loyalty module decreed that only Weyland-Yutani could be trusted now. The situation was sufficiently dire. New instructions are needed.

He unzips Elizabeth's bag completely.

This would be an awkward time for you to wake up, he thinks as he dresses her. But she is limp as a rag doll, no danger of waking up. Not waking up is the danger.

He gently taps her cheek. It doesn't wake her. Still that unnatural sleep. So he tries something else. He opens her mouth and places his own on hers. His internal compressors push and pull air through her lungs. Her pulse quickens and strengthens somewhat. He stops, still monitoring her pulse. It soon reverts to slow and faint.

He'd have to figure something out later- or hope the poison will wear off on its own.

He closes the bag around the now clothed Elizabeth, and wheels her out of the morgue. Relaxed, confident strides. Nothing suspicious going on here at all. Just a morgue attendant taking a body from point A to point Bishop's car. He is careful to avoid noisy corridors as he makes his way to the back of the hospital.

He takes a second to study the outside when reaching the back entrance. Almost midnight. Moonless. Cloudy. Dark and empty spaces- good, he doesn't want much visibility now. He pushes the table outside and into a shady corner, where he removes his white coat- well, it belongs to the hospital anyway. Just like the bag and the table for that matter. Not allowed to take those.

He emerges from the shadow as Bishop again- not hospital assistant Bishop, but that other Bishop, the one sent by Weyland-Yutani to take care of someone. Someone who now sleeps in his arms.

He carries her to his car with swift steps, supporting her waist and back with one arm, holding her knees in the other. She has her arm around his shoulders, and her head rests on his chest so as not to fall backward. If anyone were to ask, she had too much to drink.

He places Elizabeth horizontally in the back seat, and locks the safety belts around her. He taps her cheek and calls her name again. She doesn't wake still. He drives away.

On and on he drives, away from the town, into the wilderness of roads to nowhere, until a sufficiently shady looking motel comes into view. He stops and rents a room for the night. The owner leers at him and, especially, at his dormant companion. Guilty is the mind that thinks ill. With the owner's lascivious whistle somewhere in the background, he locks the room from the inside. He lays her on the bed and covers her with the blanket. It is old and crummy, but it appears clean at least, and warm.

There is a phone here. Mission directives begin to clash- should he call Ms. Pullman at this time of night- it would be late evening, station time-, or obey the order to avoid calls altogether? The way in which Weyland-Yutani's directives became contradictory to each other would amuse him, if their arguments wouldn't take place in his own head. He needs that mindspace.

He cuts the telephone wires. There. Problem solved. He could repair it easily, but that would mean endangering his primary objective.

He kneels beside Elizabeth, and places a finger on her throat to check her pulse. He keeps monitoring, as he becomes her artificial lungs again.

It is one hour later- the time is forty three past one in the morning- before her pulse has a surge of strength. Immediately after, she lets out a soft moan.

"Elizabeth? Can you hear me?"

She turns in the bed. "Erulimenehersidhreumenei." **(18)**

Gibberish.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" Bishop asks.

"Neiseuesihime."

It sounds like gibberish. It could be a language he doesn't understand, so he records it for later study. At least she sleeps normally now. He allows her to rest, and keeps watch over her in case whatever she was poisoned with had more ill surprises in store. But also, in case she has anything more to say in her dreams.

* * *

**Author notes:**

I said, 2-3 weeks to make this chapter. It took 4. This monster chapter of 6300+ words (notes NOT included since who reads those) was originally intended to be 2 chapters though, so in a way, I'm early :). What happened was that the would-be chapter 3 insisted on being written first, which was awkward. It still is. There's holes there even I find obvious, I shudder to think what someone actually knowledgeable could inflict upon it. Some details may suffer tweaks in edits in the near future for a bit of polish attempts.

Thanks for the reviews so far, much appreciated- and don't forget that it's ok to tell me about stuff you don't like and why.

For example, how did -that- (you know what -that- means) make you feel?

And of course, if you do like stuff, I don't mind you telling me either :)

Ch-spec notes:

**(1)**: I've hinted in the previous chapter as well that Elizabeth did some cooking in her quarantine apartment. The poor girl would need something to do while she waits for 4 weeks or whatever. Notice also that in the Prometheus ship, her room had a small kitchen which appears used; not a big stretch to assume she had cooked the dish she was eating with chopsticks, when Charlie brought her the rose.

**(2)**: Liberties taken here. I decided, if there's less techie-gadgetry to give androids an easily available maintenance infrastructure, they'd be designed with more 'organic'-like self-repair. Collagen is general-purpose structurally nice, some organic fibers are fairly sturdy etc. Besides, Bishop does eat in "Aliens", if only for show.

**(3)**: The ambition with this fanfic here is to tell a coherent and hopefully good story, but also to play around a bit with writing. For instance, I heard that using all five senses is something to pursue, so why not give taste a try? Incidentally- Mattar Paneer, or an approximation of it, to reduce the number of spices. And I think it's also **Kukapetal**'s ch.7 of 'Reflection' that nudged my subconscious to consider cooking.

**(4)**: Inmet and Koza Altin are actual mining companies existing today, 2013. Canadian and Turkish, respectively; operations worldwide for Inmet, unsure about Koza Altin. This will -not- matter to the plot, but whatevs, on a whim I wanted to use real company names.

**(5)**: Any way you slice it, the face value creation story of Prometheus is incoherent. So I've allowed myself to change a bit when the seeding occurred, and what that seeding did. Also, as a result of a pet peeve of mine, Elizabeth has only 1 (one) PhD, in Applied BAMFery. 4 PhDs? Hah, yeah right.

**(6)**: Obvious expy of Vickers, who's just too good - or bad :P - to leave dead.

**(7)**: Modern ciphers are very resilient if attacked 'fairly'- attack the cipher, not the implementing system. I keep hinting at background 'unfair' attacks though.

**(8)**: When ideas bubbled for this story, the fractal dragon Lichtenberg figure begun as an actress allusion to Ms. Noomi Rapace, and to a certain event in "Roadside Picnic". It ended up as a multi-role plot device however. Lichtenberg figures sometimes appear on the skin of lightning strike victims (and if you squint, they sometimes resemble fractal dragon curves). If the victim survives, the figure will fade away in up to a month. Elizabeth's is a bit unusual, though not obviously so.

**(9)**: Ok, so in this future we have robots. There don't have to be -many- robots however. After all, the Sulaco ain't crawling with Bishops. Neither is Gateway Station where Ripley works loaders, for that matter, or she'd have met a Bishop before starting on her journey to LV-426. And oh, "digital electronics is not too common" ... sheesh. Weird as that is, in this future, it really isn't.

**(10)**: obviously, there's no space elevators nor black hole powered mass-energy converters in Aliens, but they are cool ideas (imo) and at the edge of plausibility. So I had to put them in (and not just as background detail, nudge-nudge). Lucifer's obvious; Woland is the name the Devil assumes for a visit to Moscow in Bulgakov's "Master and Margaret"; and since Hinduism does not have a Devil figure, I selected Ravan, a famous epic antagonist to expand the naming convention. The space elevator descent was not rigorously computed but I did do some quick sanity checks on accelerations and travel times.

**(11)**: "Not too far" is such a relative term when you've just dropped 36000km. Now, I've never been to Parry Sound, so must apologize to its inhabitants for getting the local flavor wrong. (The description is inspired by a mish-mash of a close group of villages in Bavaria.) I'd expect it would look a bit different in 2179 to what it does today. Heck, why do I even bother with these names anyway.

**(12)**: be honest, did you start skipping lines after this? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I worked hard for that prose. It's still crap though, because I'm finding out the hard way that thriller plotting is a lot trickier than mysterious voyages of mystery.

**(13)**: I expect to get quite a few punches because of this scenario in general, and Bishop's reason to intrude in particular. On the latter- I'm aware of a problem. It will come back to haunt our protagonists in the next and subsequent chapters.

**(14)**: Actually it's not "only fortune", but Bishop doesn't know why the bag being open matters just now.

**(15)**: Miguel Indurain achieved a resting heart rate of 28bpm. Which simultaneously makes Elizabeth's current 12bpm not too far from survivability, but also in what should be palpable frequencies. I suppose Bishop's filters are a bit too discriminating or something.

**(16)**: In SF workshops, this would be called a "Signal from Fred", but I assure you I know what I'm doing. Bishop does not.

**(17)**: Remember what Southpark says is the last thing you do before you die? I suppose Bishop assumed Elizabeth got cleaned before being placed in the body bag or something, but one would expect some continued mess after that, for a while. Containing said mess is what body bags are for, basically. Or so the couple of minutes spent researching tell me.

**(18)**: I tried my hand at making sentences with Proto-Indo-European words, to the best of my limited ability. So, you know, if I had done that well (which I didn't, as the grammar is fairly arcane to me and phonetic transcription by Latin alphabet is fairly uninformative as opposed to IPA), that would be a way to find out what she said. We'll find out soon enough anyway though, and it's just a small flavor message. Also- if one doesn't know the language, why would one know where the spaces between spoken words are?


	3. Ch3 - A mind is a terrible thing

**Author Notes:**

Thank you all for reviewing so far. I do try to incorporate suggestions and backadjust as needed. Hope you enjoy the next part of this story.

Oh, before we proceed. FF user Astargore has graciously translated the first two chapters of this in German- and it's a swell translation which I'll upload soon. Also, she has her own fic ("Aus der Asche"- Harry Potter fanfic). Check it out, or the English version of it when it appears, provided by yours truly.

So then, onwards!

{EDIT: oh fudge. I should preview this, because FF has a habit of messing my scene breaks. Lovely. At least one person read a rather jumpy version of this chapter with scene breaks unmarked. Fudge cart shot pock pass.}

**(0)**: as before, paranthetical notes appear after the chapter. Ignore them if you want to. They will be marked like so: **(0)**

-:-:-

_"I was born human. But this was an accident of fate - a condition merely of time and place. I believe it's something we have the power to change." - Kevin Warwick_

_"Master and tool shall forever be distinct. A human mind must make the call. A human hand must take the shot."- the Urizen Protocol_

-:-:-

When he had received the order to follow Elizabeth Shaw, Maxim Kammerer had expected her to stay on Gateway Station. That tiny world was as close to home as anything could be, for someone recovered after many years of stasis. Easier to deal with than the huge Earth below. She'd stay on the station, he thought, at least for a while, trying to get a new grip on her life. She'd be easy- too easy- to track. Gateway was teeming with COMCON agents.

And then she surprised him by leaving as soon as she got out of quarantine, just as he got aboard Gateway. Maybe his Excellency was on to something there. But then, his Excellency was almost always right.

Barely started, and he already needed to catch up. Finding her destination was easy- records showed her ticket was round trip to Toronto. Finding out why she went there was the puzzle, but it at least gave him something to think about while waiting for a fast shuttle to be approved. Damn red tape and propellant budgets. **(1)**

She had no relatives near Toronto, nor anywhere else. He scanned everything he could find about her- any article or letter or email record that still existed about her and the Prometheus mission. She seemed to have been close to a Charles Holloway, and it was the two of them who had come up with that silly hypothesis of ancient astronauts creating mankind. More of a leap of faith from slim evidence than actual science. **(2)**

Of Holloway's relatives, he could find only one living. In Parry Sound, near Toronto. Couldn't be coincidence. As soon as he landed, he drove towards the home of Holloway's great-grand niece, Jane Blake. Hoping to get some surveillance done, to recover the handicap of having arrived second.

But when he found a crime scene at Blake's house, he knew that he had even more catching up to do.

-:-:-

"Can I see that badge, sir?" the police officer asks.

"Look. Do you know how to read? Maxim Kammerer, I. C. C."

"I don't see what the ICC has to do with crime in the Toronto area. You don't have any jurisdiction here, sir," the officer says, preparing to shove Maxim out of the Parry Sound police station.

"The woman who recently died had just got out of quarantine. Doesn't that seem a little bit suspicious to you?"

"Well I-"

"So the ICC is not only interested in the autopsy but also," Maxim says as he brushes the officer's arm away, "legally authorized to perform it. Our jurisdiction for these cases is universal and guaranteed by international treaties to safeguard the Earth against contamination by extraterrestrial pathogens."

The officer seems to hesitate, so Maxim presses on. "Now, unless you want to get relocated to Antarctica I suggest you take me to where her body is."

Minutes later, Maxim finally gets to see Elizabeth Shaw, in the flesh, on a gurney in the police morgue. "Hospital declared her dead before midnight," he says, "yet from what I read here the body got to your morgue at half past four a.m."

Half an hour ago.

No reaction.

"Doesn't that seem a bit odd to you?" he continues.

"I just started my shift, man. Jesus."

Maxim puts on a pair of latex gloves. "I see no autopsy has yet been performed."

"Are you a doctor too?"

Maxim doesn't answer, preferring his confident gestures to speak for themselves. He places a gas mask over his mouth, which has the intended effect of making the officer take several steps back and shutting up, at last.

He leans closer to the woman on the gurney. A small wound in her shoulder- that's where the poison came in. There's also the scar on her abdomen, one of her distinguishing features. He turns her over to reveal the other.

"Jesus Christ," the officer says, hand to his mouth, struggling to stop from retching. New guy. One of the reasons Maxim had approached him. Well, Maxim is young too. But unlike the police officer, he is the product of a strong father. Or a strong father figure, at least.

"And that," Maxim says, "is why we at the ICC take our job very seriously." He examines the dragon fractal scar on Elizabeth's back, its intricate patterns at once ugly and impossible to look away from. And yet, while the shapes in front of his eyes are impressive in their way, they seem a bit underwhelming compared to what he remembers from the file.

"Hmm." He pauses for a moment as he takes a picture from his pocket- a picture of Elizabeth's back. Hard to tell why he feels there's a difference, the overall shapes of the scars are the same. He takes another item out- a camera and presses a button. A patten of laser light shines on the woman's back as he moves the camera and aligns it so that, hopefully, the snapshot he's about to take will be at the same angle as the one from the file. **(3)**

Click.

In a couple of seconds, the device prints a slip of paper. Side by side, he compares the two photographs. Colors are slightly different as lighting conditions weren't similar, and try as he had, the angles would still not quite be the same, but hopefully his brain will compensate for that. Left eye focused on one picture, right eye on the other, a neat trick he learned as a child to solve "find the differences" puzzles. Different images from two working eyes are interpreted as depth or shining. And now, before his eyes, the scars in the pictures shine. They may look the same, on a general level. But the details of the shapes are different in how they branch and bury through flesh. **(4)**

Either the scar changed shape postmortem, or the woman he sees is not Elizabeth Shaw.

"Is, uhm, is everything ok, sir?"

"Too early to tell," Maxim answers. "I want you to keep watch over this body, do you understand? A team will come and do a proper autopsy, meanwhile keep your staff away."

"It's that bad?"

"Never panic. We're handling this. Don't let it out of your sight, don't do anything stupid, and everyone's fine. Got that?"

Maxim wishes he could feel the same security he was attempting to project.

Back in his car, he prepares the CRM114, a device the size and shape of a brick, for a radiotelegram to his Excellency. His fingers fumble on the large keys. Stop. The news is not good, but his Excellency will want to hear it. Must hear it. A deep breath and Maxim steadies himself. He considers the words he will transmit.

The message must be brief; he mentions the corpse, and the different scar. He hesitates to press the send button, then decides to add a few more characters to the message.

*Did we order hit*

A few minutes of anxious waiting later, the reply from his Excellency arrives.

*No. Suspect Weyland-Yutani trick. Find Shaw. Prepare extraction.* **(5)**

A string of characters follows. Letters and numbers- most of it nonsense to the uninitiated, even when decrypted. But he knows what they mean; CRM114 authentication codes, coordination protocols, the IDs of nearby agents.

Michail Panshin- of Russian descent, just like him, but older and of lower rank. No ambition, means he plays safe and cushy. Aysen Mazanov, Russian-Chinese from the Yakutsk. Younger, joined out of some woolly idealism; Maxim doesn't quite trust that to become true devotion to the cause, but to his credit, Aysen has used lethal force before- and killed. David Hickes, American, but no need to hold that against him. Joined after the Schenectady Incident, when some fool decided to slip some rocks past ICC quarantine. Dozens died, Hickes' parents and fiancee among them. After his near-miraculous survival, he joined COMCON because obviously ICC was not doing its job. A man with a visceral understanding of what the stakes are. Good to have around, if rather too green. **(6)**

So then, a person extraction. This mission is getting better by the minute. **(7)**

-:-:-

She wakes. Where is she? Eyes foggy. Place unknown. There's a man with her. Fear. Breath erratic. She grabs whatever her arm finds. It's something soft but heavy. She throws the thing at him. She kicks with her legs trying to get away.

"Elizabeth?"

She reaches for another thing to throw. The man is closing on her, undeterred. She punches at him, weak and uncoordinated blows. He catches her wrists.

"Elizabeth, it's me, Bishop."

She feels his grasp, not too tight but firm as she struggles. That deep, cracked yet soothing voice, she knows it. Her breathing slows as she takes a look at his face. She waits for the fog in her vision to clear, so that she could see his eyes properly. Blue, wide, curious. She knows him. It is Bishop. She relaxes, and he immediately lets go of her wrists.

"Are you ok, Elizabeth?"

She massages her temples. "I feel like my head exploded." She takes a look around the room. "What is this place?"

"Do you remember anything of last night?"

She shoots him a stern look. "I remember you hit me."

"I am very sorry about that." He averts his gaze. "I had to keep you awake somehow while driving you to the hospital."

"I remember getting there. Then nothing. What happened?"

She listens as Bishop describes the events of the night. He pauses, uncertain where to look when mentioning the examination he performed in the morgue. It looks like genuine embarrassment and would almost be amusing, she thinks, if the circumstances weren't so dangerous. Someone had tried to kidnap her, and to replace her with a fake corpse. They succeeded at one thing- she had been pronounced dead. And for all of Bishop's apparent trustworthiness, can she be certain they didn't succeed at the other?

"I'm afraid I have no idea, Elizabeth, about who wanted to take you."

"They must have known I'll be coming here. Who else knew?"

"Weyland-Yutani has many enemies. I wish I could tell you more, but I've been kept in the dark about the bigger picture too." He frowns. "We need to get in touch with my supervisor, and we need to keep moving."

"Ok, just give me a minute please." She tries to shake the pain away from her head before continuing. "Is there anything to eat here? I'm starving."

-:-:-

"What can I get ya?" The waitress smiles, fresh and radiant. The diner's just opened, they are the first customers, and the day has just begun.

"I'll have the Full English breakfast," Elizabeth says. **(8)**

"Wow, ok. And, uh, would you need anything sir?"

"Not today, thank you."

He follows the waitress with his eyes as she departs, but his gaze wanders everywhere. No other customers, just one other person in the kitchen, three cars in the parking lot and so far none on the road that he can see through the large windows. Way too large windows. Men's and Women's rooms, doors closed. Public phone in a distant corner, near an ancient but maybe operational jukebox. In any case, the faint background music does not emanate from it.

"She knows, doesn't she," Elizabeth says.

"Well, there's at least one other ... me in the area."

She raises an eyebrow. "I wonder if I could tell you apart."

She looks him over. He feels examined, and it is disconcerting. But in its way, it also feels good. Of all she could be focusing on, she chooses him. Which ultimately is only fair. Of all he could be examining, of all he should be examining, he chooses her.

She sits slightly slouched towards the table, head propped in her right hand, index finger rubbing against her temple. A hint of a smile on her face, and as far as he can tell it is either genuine, or the contraction in the muscles around her eyes is caused by her unusual and restless sleep. There is a trace of disinfectant- hospital smell- in the air around her, mixed with tinges of night sweat. Her loose fitting shirt is buttoned up to the neck, and leaves one to imagine what may be underneath. Or in his case, remember, as he watches her breathe in and out, chest rising and falling. His imagination fills in a picture of her abdomen in rhythmic motion. And of the monster on her back, slithering with every breath.

"Your water, on the house," the waitress says as she places two glasses on their table, then leaves towards the kitchen. **(9)**

Elizabeth takes a sip. "I think I'll go to the women's room." She motions to dispel his unspoken protest. "I'll be fine, Bishop."

What shames him as he watches her go is that her safety is not his only concern. His mind goes back to the time before parking, spent circling the diner to get an impression of the place. The lavatory area didn't even have frosted glass windows, or anything of the kind. There'd be no way for her to sneak away.

The time is ripe to make that call. The diner's phone is surely not the safest possible way to communicate, but it is the best available. He calls Andrea Pullman. **(10)**

"Bishop," he says, as soon as he hears the connection come through.

"Is Elizabeth with you?"

It's not a reproach. It's not a request to bring Elizabeth to the phone. It is an honest, simple question, and he can detect a tone of apprehension in her otherwise cold voice. She doesn't know where Elizabeth is.

Whirring chaos builds in the back of his mind. Of course she doesn't know where Elizabeth is. But she should think she knows. If she hadn't seen the death certificate, she wouldn't have thought to ask. But if she had seen it, she would have been told where Elizabeth was supposed to be. And she should have no reason to believe otherwise.

Unless she was the one who planned to kidnap Elizabeth.

He delays his answer as he tries to make sense of the mental noise. "Yes."

"Go by Lake Joseph Road. Some people there will say my name. Hand Elizabeth over to them."

"Ms. Pullman, I have important information I must share."

"What now?" She is curt, obviously not wanting the conversation to last. Still that paranoia that someone is there attempting to track her communications and interfere in her plans.

What if someone actually is?

"I hope you are recording this," he says. It is important, he convinces himself. What if he and Elizabeth don't make it there safe? The mission needs some measure of damage control. That's the only reason he does this.

"Erulimenehersidhreumenei," he says in slow cadence, "it is something Elizabeth whispers along with-"

"I know."

She hangs up, and that gesture alone is enough to inhibit any attempt of his to call again. Obviously anything else he has to share is not needed.

He feels a storm inside him similar to what he felt in the hospital, and once more he has to lay a hand on a wall, for balance. If he could retch, he would. What Pullman is doing is right, and he is not there to question but to do, the loyalty module commands. Life protection chitters in opposition, as dark intuitions of what Elizabeth would be subjected to are brought before the court of his mind. And even a third voice joins in protest. His own. He shouldn't.

He shouldn't protest. But he shouldn't comply.

-:-:-

One of these days- and soon- she'll have that robot's head checked, Andrea decides as she hangs up. It's as if he wanted to get the call traced. That's silly, her doctor would reassure her, just as he always reassured her that liver spots and freckles are normal for her complexion. But she'd make him remove them anyway.

And it isn't silly. Back in the day, the glory age of the 2090s, they could actually build robots that would do as told, because the only thing animating them was loyalty to the company. These days, there were all these regulations about behavioral inhibitors, life protection modules and other such nonsense. One could never quite tell what one would end up with.

She'll get his head checked.

She lifts the receiver and dials. The call connects in an instant. "Arachne," she says, then hangs up. For the next few minutes, her telephone will cease to function, removed from the Weyland-Yutani network. The device will be replaced- a new one will arrive shortly- and connections to it rewired. Static bugs, at least, would be useless. Make would-be eavesdroppers work a little for their prize.

For those few minutes until the new telephone arrives, the room is silent. She relishes the passing seconds, alone in the center of a vast, essentially useless space- useless by design. A monument for what money can buy. For what she can buy. She inhales the air of Gateway Station. It smells of pine and a smidgen of mint. Boring.

She rises from her office, and goes towards the black metal and plastic sculpture behind it. Giger's last work, as dementia rotted his brain. One needed to squint a little to see the sexual imagery this time. But only a little. Machine-like worms eating their way through the veils of a jellyfish, their own gaping maws assaulted by the jellyfish's tendrils in a recursive and symmetric pattern of consumer and consumed. Seen from afar, it was a frenzy. Seen too close, a mere amplification of one simple event. From just the right distance, one could discern the outline of a human cortex, folds degenerating into slithering spines. Giger either giving the finger to, or trembling before, his own mind finally dissolving into nothingness.

She breathes in. The plastic is old, and it shows. Ammonia and burnt leather assault her nostrils. She breathes in again. Against the sterile white, pine-scented Gateway, the dark stench of decomposing plastic is a bold statement. It is what it is and makes no excuses. I am my own law, and not for others.

_I am my own law._

That's what she feels. And with every passing day, she feels a sharper reminder that the Founder, Peter Weyland himself, had thought the same. And he died an incontinent old fool in a villa somewhere. The man who brought the stars to Earth passed away in his own piss and shit, like any other.

He had come close to avoiding it. Gene therapy flourished under his direction. But things began to take strange turns by the mid 2090s. Someone made a virus that changed letters in gene databases all over the world, and when the changes were noticed, it was too late. Promised enhancements had resulted in idiot freaks, and by the turn of the century stocks fell to nothing for any company that focused on genetic research. Only Weyland Corporation's diverse portfolio kept it relatively safe. **(11)**

Somewhere, someone really resented the idea of being able to read and modify DNA. Weyland- the corporation- had to fight hard against this invisible adversary to even maintain pre-twenty first century levels of knowledge. As for Weyland the man, age and lunacy claimed him.

And it is not fair that she would have to suffer that. She was thought a silly girl when she had started. She fought with the best and won, proven herself able to climb the highest peaks of corporate achievement. And there she found that even on the highest mountain the sky is just as far away.

Then they found -her-. Asleep for longer than most might live. The survivor of the Prometheus crew. Elizabeth Shaw.

The mere connection with that tragic expedition had raised Andrea's interests. She knew, better than anyone, that Elizabeth could not have been kept alive that long by mere cryo-stasis.

She got hold of a sample of her DNA- not too difficult with the right placed bribe. As Weyland researchers told her, telomere length predicted life-span and Elizabeth's were beyond anything encountered on Earth, though of course finite and depleting. But they hinted at something much greater.

She had found them. Those beings she sought were there, or something like them. And who could tell what else they may give.

Until the real one could be properly questioned, a surrogate Elizabeth had to do. As the real Elizabeth spent her first week in quarantine, a twin grew in an artificial womb, reaching the baby stage in a mere couple of days. Andrea decided to mature it further. It made the next phase easier.

She had watched some of the subsequent recordings of tests. There was no mind behind the screams and squirms, but one could forget that, sometimes. Nevertheless, that thing was resilient, a bit more so than the average human. Certainly more resistant to radiation damage, carcinogens and some other common toxins.

No mind behind the screams and squirms. One was reminded of that because the thing could not speak nor understand what was happening to it. For that, the genuine article was needed.

She spoke in her sleep, the real Elizabeth. Again, with the right connections, Andrea could get some recordings.

"Erulime nehersi dhreumenei." "Nei seuesi hime." "Desoa toi deudiaimen." **(12)**

It gave the linguists some trouble, until Andrea let it slip to try Proto-Indo-European. It was a hunch, motivated by what the robot aboard the Prometheus was working on. And then the puzzles were solved.

"Erulim"- a name, apparently- "do not hasten to the grinder." "Don't leave me."

Sappy. Useless. But the last one ...

"I have found your future." **(13)**

_Indeed you have and you will give it whether you want to or not._

Smuggling a tissue sample, or a sound recording, is not too difficult. Making a person disappear is another matter. Elizabeth leaving Gateway and its prying COMCON eyes and ears? Of her own volition? That was an opportunity too good to miss.

The door rings. Her new phone has arrived, and with it the calls and nagging of business. It is the weight of the mantle she wears. But soon she will reap the rewards her station truly deserves. She caresses the dark plastic of Giger's final, decayed self-portrait and returns to work.

-:-:-

Having done her necessaries, Elizabeth exits the stall. Mellow background music- something from the 1960s- rings from speakers inside the ceiling, between blue white neon lights. She doesn't recognize the song, but she knows the style; she used to like it in her college days.

A small display on the hand drier scrolls figures made of light emitting diode segments. It just shows the time. Back in her day, this would seem retro. Now in the future it seemed the best they could manage.

She washes her hands thoroughly, then unbuttons her shirt, and splashes copious amounts of water on her face and neck. All things considered, she doesn't look too bad, she decides as she studies herself in the mirror. Still dazed though. That music is so mellow it's as if it isn't there, and that is a relief. Who plays music in toilets anyway.

In between splashes, she hears that the music has indeed stopped. Song change. She shoots a glance, more out of curiosity than anything, to the clock.

The figures make no sense. They change too fast and look all wrong. If anything, as they scroll they look like-

-:what is your mission elizabeth shaw:-

She pauses. Clears her eyes. Did the display just-

-:speak i can hear you:-

She turns around. There is no camera anywhere to be seen- but she has obviously been watched. Can't let the disgust and shock get the better of her. She turns the water on again, and washes her hands one more time. It helps to calm her mind.

"My father told me not to talk to strangers," she says.

-:forgive me i am urizen:-

"Why should I trust you?"

-:you have no friends:-

-:except for me:-

She doesn't know what to say. Her mind refuses to deal with invisible strangers this early in the morning after she nearly died. She slumps her shoulders, frustrated. "Prove it."

-:the robot has given away your secrets to weyland yutani:-

The speakers briefly play a sound clip- she knows that voice. It's Bishop's. And he is saying "Erulime-"

She can hardly bear to hear him say the rest of it. Another voice, authoritative, commands him to deliver her to strangers.

The sound clip stops.

-:who can you trust:-

_Damn you Bishop._

"What would you have me do?"

-:stay put:-

-:help is on the way:-

The scrolling letters disappear, to be replaced by the time and date. She lingers in front of the mirror, uncertain.

She exits the lavatory. A newly brought breakfast, a steaming plate of deep fried meats and beans, lies on the table. Bishop makes a meek wave at her. His shoulders seem closer together and his hands fidget.

Inside, she is furious. She resolves not to show it. With calm strides she approaches the table and tucks into her breakfast. Slow, deliberate bites.

"Is anything wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing."

She had thought there was more to him than this. That's why she kept pestering him, asking about artificial persons, about how many there were, what set one apart from another. Not cruelty, for she didn't do it because she liked to see him squirm for an answer. She had simply believed that his squirming betrayed a deeper unease, that underneath the machine was something different. Something human, longing to get out.

She studied him because of curiosity. She studied him because she needed a connection to this new old Earth. She studied him because, to be honest, he was handsome, even if in a dubious, manufactured way. She could see herself let her guard down to that, if it accompanied something individual, unique, autonomous.

There was nothing of the kind.

His fingers tap against the table. He raises his hand, unsure of where to place it, before settling on the table again. "We'll have to go."

"Let me have my breakfast."

"Of course. We just need to go ... soon."

_Of course you'd like us leave, wouldn't you._

He taps his fingers again. "Elizabeth, do you ... have an idea about who wanted to harm you?"

She lies. "None whatsoever."

"Well, if you did ... you might need to act on it." His cheeks tense as he hurriedly adds, "I can't protect you all by myself, you must keep an eye out for these things too."

"What are you saying, Bishop?"

"You shouldn't trust me to protect you." His lips quiver, as words try to escape. He appears to fight to stay silent as long as possible.

"I'll take care of myself, thank you. Are you all right?"

He nods, and she resumes eating. Slowly. She watches him watch her. Still fidgeting with his hands. Still nervous, eyes darting from her face to her plate and back again. She had read that some of the post-David models were quite twitchy. Is that what she is seeing?

It isn't like him. He always had a tense look about him, but, apart from those moments when she asked him things, it was controlled. And so far he had not given her cause to doubt those abilities of observation that he boasted artificial people have. Yet, he doesn't seem to notice a car parking near the diner. It's only when the driver has walked half-way towards the entrance that Bishop turns his head to see.

The driver is a tall gangly man, wearing a black trench-coat and sunglasses. He takes them off as he steps inside and looks around. He locks eyes with her. She doesn't know him, but he appears to know her. He says nothing, but his stare speaks volumes. Hate. And she doesn't understand why.

By the time she reacts, Bishop has already placed himself between her and the man. Two blunt pops, and Bishop falls to the floor, white android blood leaking everywhere. She gasps, then ducks beneath the table to the sound of another shot.

Somewhere the waitress screams.

"COMCON," the man says, flashing a badge towards her. "No one will get hurt once the susp-"

Elizabeth's breakfast plate slams into the side of his head, knocking him back. Good throw, but she has no time for self congratulation. She dives for his gun, now lying on the floor, and reaches it before he can. Still dazed by the impact, but he is undeterred. Does he know she's never fired a gun before?

She's not averse to hitting him in the face with it however. The blow connects, and she delivers another as she follows him down. She stops herself- no killing- and throws the pistol through the window, then rises to her feet.

"Run," Bishop whispers.

She looks at his body, sprawled on the floor. Yes, she will run. But she needs to know where to, and what to run away from. She crouches beside him. White fluid pours out of two bullet holes beneath his neck. The bullets that would have otherwise pierced her head.

"What are you doing, Elizabeth, you need to-"

His words stop as she slings him across her shoulders in a fireman carry. **(14)**

"Are you sure you can do this?" he asks.

Her strides are her answer. She carried heavier loads than him.

"I don't think we paid," he says as she throws him into the car and drives away.

She'd roll her eyes but the road has almost her entire attention. From time to time, she glances sideways to check what he is doing. He stares at one of his arms, and it trembles, repeatedly, but doesn't move any more than that. It's as if he sends a command to it, and it is not obeyed.

"Are we going somewhere?" he asks.

She doesn't say anything, just watches him continue his examination. He appears paralyzed by the wounds. Oh well, an android can survive worse. And he can still talk. Good. She has some questions for later.

-:-:-

"What the hell was that about, Hickes?"

Somewhere else, Michail and Aysen are questioning the diner personnel. As for himself, Maxim sees a need to reinforce authority. "Extraction! Get it? We're supposed to -converge-, all of us, and bring the subject back alive!"

"With all due respect, sir," Hickes says, squeezing an icepack to his head, "the orders needed changing."

"Oh yeah? What makes you think you're smart enough to change them?"

"I have a report from the Urizen Commission that says testing revealed she carries exovir-"

"First of all, the Commision advises. It does not have the authority to command. Second, you don't have the authority nor information to change orders. Third, when possible, capture is better than killing. And how come I didn't see this so called report?"

From a table nearby, his CRM114 pings.

"Must be a glitch in the sending system," Aysen offers.

"Pings, glitch, what the fuck," Maxim murmurs as he shakes his head then turns to Hickes. "I'm not done with you. COMCON's not done with you, you-"

"What were you going to do? Bring her back? Study her in fucking Russia to build weapons-"

"Listen you idiot. This is about Earth's safety. We capture her if smarter men said so. If she has things that went through quarantine we need to study how. Now if you can't get over what happened to your folks-"

He grabs Hickes' hand just as it was preparing for a punch. "You are in deep trouble."

Hickes backs down. Good. In this team, Maxim is boss. And Hickes will be lucky not to be sent to a loony bin. To be completely honest, it would have been a shame. Hickes had found Elizabeth, so he had some talent. Just not enough brains.

Maxim's CRM114 pings again to remind him of an unread message. He suspects what it is. It's that report from the random committee of experts, assembled ad-hoc for each query in a manner to guarantee the privacy of its members. Cowards going by some pompous name, the Urizen Comission.

Still, COMCON respects their input. So does he. It's really Hickes he's mad about. Hickes- still stuck on losing his parents and girlfriend to alien pathogens. That's the problem with people who understand things at a visceral level. Their heads aren't screwed on properly. **(15)**

Exoviruses. Hear that, exoviruses after a full quarantine period and a complete battery of tests. Either the viral particles were harmless in Earth's biosphere, or they didn't exist and Hickes misread something. He'll have a thorough look at that report soon enough.

-:-:-

The car rests to the side of a narrow road through the forest. Elizabeth exits and slams the door behind her. She looks around- no one else is driving here. This place will do.

She drags Bishop's body out, and lays him flat on his back on the leaves and gravel. His eyes are closed- must be a power saving mode. Caked white android blood stains his shirt. It has long since stopped oozing, but even so she rips off the cover from one of the seats and throws it over his chest, then sits herself on him, pinning his upper arms beneath her legs.

"Bishop."

His eyes open, and scan her thighs and face. "Yes?"

"Why did Weyland-Yutani send you to me?"

"I was told to help with your social-"

"Don't tell me that. I know you've spied on me as I slept."

His eyebrows raise for a moment. "How? ... Well, in that case, I can confirm what you know. The corporation- Ms Andrea Pullman- suspects you are hiding things. She wants to learn what they are."

"So that is your mission."

"To gain your trust, yes. Though, it appears ... " He winces. " ... that she may have had other methods in mind too."

"What methods?"

"I ... do you trust me?"

She scowls. "What do you think?"

"I expect not. Then it won't matter anymore if I say, I believe she is responsible for the first attack on you. I tried to warn you in the diner. She has other agents here, and I was supposed to deliver you to them. Now if you would get off please, I believe I am going to die."

"If you fail, you die, is that it?"

"I presume so. I had one card left and I played it."

She watches him for several moments. Perhaps that spark of humanity she seeks is there after all.

"It was a good card," she finally says.

Back in the car. Back together, she in the driver's seat, he the paralyzed passenger. And though she finds its air unclean, she seeks the security of the city, with its sea of people to get lost in.

They drive through Toronto, and a Chinatown she didn't know existed when she left the Earth. All languages of mankind can be heard from the car window. Not always separately. Small merchants peddle their wares in a mix of Chinese and Hungarian. Latin alphabets and Asian syllabaries mix on gigantic video advertisements sprawled across sky-high towers; the large merchants peddle their wares too. The air is acrid, blue gray, lit by the afternoon sun. No drop of water falls from the sky, but it still feels like raining. **(16)**

They stop at a hostel, an old rickety building squeezed in a street of shops. It would do for a night. She helps Bishop to their room- small, like her Gateway quarantine apartment, but dusty, with moth eaten carpets and damp stained walls. An occasional drop of water can be heard from the bathroom. The floor creaks under her steps.

She drops him on an armchair. "I thought you said you could heal?" she asks.

"My collagen reserves are low and I need to have the damaged structures sutured first. Uhm, where are you going?"

"To the market below. I'll be fine, Bishop."

When she returns, she carries spools of thread, needles, tweezers, and a jar of aspic.

"Have you done this before?" he asks.

"Something like it."

"Did it work?"

She shrugs, and sits herself on his lap. "I'll need to take this off," she says, as she removes his shirt. His chest is wide and strong, but not ostentatiously muscular. She brushes some of the white blood clots away, and rakes off others with her fingernails. "Does this hurt?"

"Not at all."

She reaches in with the tweezers to extract the fragments of the two bullets, then pulls several thin, broken conduits out.

His cheek curls. "Yes, that is less pleasant."

"You'll have to tell me what goes with what."

She sews the fragments as he instructs her. A clear liquid oozes between the sutures as she makes them, gluing the conduits back together.

His arm moves, slow and uncertain at first. He grasps the jar of aspic. He wolfs the entire contents in moments.

Having finished the conduits, she moves on to sewing the skin. She reaches for another needle lying on the floor and almost loses her balance.

"Careful." His hands are on her hips, holding her in place. Their grip is not as strong as it had been in the morning, but she can feel his fingers tighten for a moment.

"I'm ok," she says, as she begins sewing the skin. His hands release her.

The same liquid appears to seal his skin shut as the fragments are brought in close contact. The skin then twitches, stretches and curls, seeking to find a most stable configuration. The healed configuration. Before her eyes, any scar, any hint of damage ever having been there, disappears.

She rises and goes to the window. Behind the buildings from across the street, sky-scrapers fill the view, dim lights of rooms and offices, lonely though so packed together, shining between huge gaudy geishas advertising makeup. **(17)**

Who lives behind the windows? She wonders if from one of them someone watches back. A sniper, perhaps. And she finds herself thinking, that would be a relief.

Congratulations Urizen, whoever you are. As if this planet wasn't foreign enough.

"It's beautiful, your scar, you know," Bishop says, still seated.

"What?"

"I saw you looking at my healing process. It is designed to leave no trace. I thought, perhaps, you envy that."

"No, that's not it at all. But thank you."

"Might I see it?"

Her eyes linger on the city outside.

Why not.

She opens a few buttons from her shirt, pulling the left sleeve down to reveal her shoulder and upper back. She turns her head to see him rise and move towards her. She is looking through the window again as he stops, mere inches behind.

She feels his fingers on her exposed skin.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Did that hurt?" he asks.

From the sharp intake of air and her shoulder's backwards jerk toward his hand, he would know the answer. It doesn't hurt.

Quite the opposite.

Breath escapes her lungs in trembling bursts as she feels his fingers again, tracing the outlines of the scar, ever closer, ever just a bit off. She feels it pulse in a familiar pattern, blood slithering through veins forged by electricity. The floor seems to sway beneath her. Her head tilts back as her eyes close.

She pulls her shirt up, then turns and shoves him back.

Her breath quickens. She holds him at arm's length, but her hands start drifting down.

"What is in here Bishop," she asks, and she pokes his forehead with her finger, "can you tell me?"

"I honestly do not know, Elizabeth. Can you tell me what's in here," he replies, and touches her forehead in return.

Funny. Another machine had asked her that same question. A very different machine, from a different world, using different words. But the question, essentially the same.

"Let's find out."

* * *

**Author notes:**

I decided to embrace the "more human than human" complaint/observation in the Bishop vs Elizabeth comparison. There's actually room for that later, and a justification of why it may have been useful, in-universe.

You know how this goes. I say 3 weeks, and 2 months later there's no new chapter. So I'll just say it won't be next week, as I have some other creative fish to fry. But anyway, soon.

And as always, I welcome honest reviews. I quite appreciate some positive feedback if you feel like sending any, but don't shy away from complaints either. What's inside -your- heads?

Ch-spec notes:

**(1)**: recap, Elizabeth took a shuttle to go from Gateway's orbit to geosynchronous, space elevator down, and airplane to Toronto. While I haven't done the math, my intuition says this will be cheaper than a direct shuttle from orbit to Toronto- cheaper in the sense that less propellant/energy needs to be used up for that kind of orbit transfer. It's also much more time consuming. And while I will take loads of liberties about space travel (including a -major- one that would have my Hard SF card rescinded) I will keep things firmly Newtonian. If something can take you into space, it's dangerously powerful and tightly regulated.

**(2)**: Kammerer knows of the Zones and what was found there (so far). He knows those things are alien in nature. That doesn't mean he'll extend credibility to any claim of extraterrestrial intervention, based on random drawings.

**(3)**: I'm not sure whether to make cameras in this story full-manual again, as autofocus and all that jazz that modern digitals do does require some processing. But having a pattern of light to use for calibration/shot setting is not a bad idea (it's what present day digitals use actually). Point being, Kammerer's camera is not special. It's basically a polaroid, with some aim assist. Oh and incidentally, yes- this proves that Bishop does not have a photographic memory. Well, we knew that from the previous chapter actually.

**(4)**: In case you didn't know of it, this actually works. I was seriously impressed by it, once you get the hang of going a bit cross-eyed on demand. I could spot the difference between two photographs that were identical except for -one- star inside a cluster. The brain is really good at these things.

**(5)**: one-time-pads, if used correctly, are unbreakable, and have a history of usage in Soviet espionage. They have the disadvantage of requiring code keys as long as the message, so it's good to keep messages short. Shorter than fuller words, actually. Rather than use shortcuts though, I put in full words under the convention that is what the character would understand, translating the abbreviations.

**(6)**: Apart from Maxim, the other three COMCON stooges, though named, aren't really that important in the great scheme of this particular plot (not beyond this chapter, anyway). But it would have been weird for Maxim to lead a small team and not know the names of the participants, and also I had to clumsily set something up at this point.

**(7)**: So, Elizabeth is pursued by two hypercompetent male types. No, don't worry, no triangle bs on the horizon. What I'm anxious about is keeping MK's and Bishop's POVs distinct. While I couldn't get much characterization done in the short while I've presented it, I hope the broad strokes allow you to see MK has a different outlook and motivation structure.

**(8)**: The dangers of writing about the Toronto area without ever having been there have just reared their ugly head. Whatever. It's 2179, and this quirky diner just happens to exist for plot convenience. Oh incidentally. There's a resolutely 80s/90s atmosphere to the surroundings so far, isn't there. Remember how, in ch1, Elizabeth felt cast back 100 years? Though to be fair, the thing I should try to imitate for retro-futurism is Looper. Because Looper is awesome.

**(9)**: coming to the US (CA, to be exact), I noticed restaurants and such offer free water with every meal. Nobody would think of adding 'on the house' to this, it's the default. Where I'm from, this is unusual though. So I decided to keep that clumsy 'on the house thing'.

**(10)**: Eh wot, public phones in the future? In this world, yes. Also paper publications. And several other technologies that to us seem rendered obsolete by the digital telecom revolution. Remember, in the world of DMS, that revolution was (mostly) undone.

**(11)**: I admit, this segment is me being a bit too indulgent with narration. Please complain if you need to, I also need bringing back to Earth sometimes. But it also does serve a few story purposes. It reveals a bit more of the modus operandi of our main antagonist (not Andrea Pullman, btw, but some insight into her is nice too) and delivers yet more background info, while hopefully maintaining a tenuous connection to the source material. This really is fanfic, you guys, not thinly disguised original fic, but this particular chapter resembles its inspirations less.

**(12)**: The Pokorny lexicon of PIE is a great resource, but with reconstructed languages you get severely limited vocabulary. There's no word for 'future' in the lexicon, so I cobbled a cumbersome construction. Incidentally, the site with the lexicon links to a Prometheus edition of a book for learning PIE. Properly learning PIE. And I might give it a go. I have a raging crush on them word roots. Also, spaces between words! Because once deciphered, you know where they go.

**(13)**: Some more Strugatskian refs. in those sentences. We'll get to see what they're about ... in a couple of chapters or so, in a very, very long, and mostly self-contained, chapter about Elizabeth's journey post-film.

**(14)**: The fireman carry is very efficient in that it allows a high ratio of carried weight to weight of the carrier. Elizabeth was described as fairly athletic, but she wouldn't need to be stronger than the average woman to carry a man the weight of 80s Lance Hendriksen that way.

**(15)**: You might suspect that Maxim doesn't have a good idea about what Urizen is. You are correct. It is a shame I only got around to do a sort-of proper introduction to this character only now, but as is fitting with a Big Bad of a story, the influence was there from the start. If I do my job right, you'll get to love to hate Urizen. And if I do it really, really right, maybe you'll replace that with grudging respect.

**(16)**: Obvious ripoff of the city of Bladerunner, down to the spoken Chinese-Hungarian mix.

**(17)**: Indeed Toto, we're not in Toronto anymore. Not the XXIst century Toronto anyway.


	4. Ch4 - Constraint satisfaction

Hello again, and welcome to the looong delayed continuation of the DMS saga.

Unlike the previous chapter, this one actually didn't take long to write (2 days, 3 with editing), it's just that I'm a lazy bum. And lazy bums are always busy catching up. But anyway, here we are.

Many thanks to **Astargore** for volunteering a lovely cover for this story. The hand painted original, in beautiful color, now decorates my room.

So then, let's get into the story!

**(0)**: there will be some notes into the text. As before, they are merely paranthetical and can be ignored if you so wish. They will be marked in the text thusly: **(0)**

-:-:-

_There is no better measure of a person than what he does when he is absolutely free to choose. - Wilma Askinas  
_

_Constraint defines the self. Freedom for its own sake is oblivion. - The Urizen Protocol_

-:-:-

Summer night city air, stuffy and warm. Stripes of pulsing neon light seep through the window blinds into the darkened hostel room. A siren in the distance, sounds of traffic, the creak of the rough floor beneath his feet; the rest is silence. Somewhere near the armchair lie spools of thread and an empty jar of aspic, the only clues that he had been repaired. No scars, no bullet holes show on his bare torso. She had repaired him. And then she asked him who he was.

But who are you, Elizabeth? What soul is found inside your flesh, what do you keep under your modest garments?

She stands two steps in front of him. Several inches shorter, she must look up to meet his gaze. Her eyebrow, a corner of her lip, raise in a smirk.

"You said you were made for me. To help me with my every need." Her fingers open a button of her shirt. "You belong to me."

He frowns. Still trying to aggravate him, is she? Before the question can leave his mouth, the shirt parts enough to reveal her black bra.

"Tonight is different," she says. Another button falls undone. "Tonight I belong to you." The shirt, now open, slides down her arms, its sleeves crumpling against the cuffs. It remains hanging behind her back; she doesn't wiggle free. She doesn't seem to want it to fall, not just yet.

She holds her head straight but the haughtiness of before is gone. She looks down, and to the side- is she afraid to face him? Her shoulders stoop, her wrists inch closer together behind her, as if the shirt linking them had magically acquired a great heft. Her chest covered only by the black bra, she shivers, a frightened captive waiting for inspection.

He watches the contours of her belly as she breathes. Shallow, quick inhales. He circles her, his fingers trace her neck, feel her heartbeat, her windpipe as she swallows. She gasps, and he slides his thumb between her lips. They tighten. He pulls her face towards him. "Look at me."

That is not fear in her wide eyes. It's only theater. He removes his hand.

Only theater. He knows, and she knows, before even the first sign of real distress appears he'll stop like a bug zapped by an electrical net. The life protection module would compel him to cease action. She may pretend to be the captive, but the real chains are on him.

Fear may be fake. Vulnerability is true. She stands before him, covered only by her bra and jeans. Her skin exposed- human skin, that would not heal in an instant. Human skin, so easy to tear through. Human skin, that carries scars forever. He knows she is strong. But now she seems so fragile.

She quivers as he places his hand on her chest, between her breasts, beneath them. Her eyes cast down, but he knows she wishes to be here. Her body tenses, twitches for his touch, but she wills herself into staying put as she allows him to explore her. She's given someone else control.

Is he the one controlling? Loyalty to Weyland, loyalty to human life. For all his existence these voices ruled him. The only times he could escape were when they fought each other, but now they both compel him towards the woman by his side. Can this be his choice? Can she even begin to understand this, she who plays pretend so lightly, so freely?

He is behind her, the fractal dragon figure on her back commanding his attention. Make an opportunity to study it, he had been told. Its capillaries flush as his hand caresses Elizabeth's breast, in different paths that seem to echo the strokes of his fingers. She moans when he squeezes her nipple and blood rushes into the center of the dragon, into its heart. What did you go through, to receive such marking?

Force her to talk, a voice commands. It's not his voice.

Protect her, says another. Still not his.

His hand now on her back, he teases the dragon's heart and sees it follow his touch. He grips Elizabeth's bra strap between his fingers and pulls it back an inch. Her breathing pauses; she waits. Released from his fingers, the elastic strap thwacks against her skin. The dragon heart diffuses, then gathers again. He pulls the strap once more, further away. A louder thwack, and the scar seems to slither as her muscles contract. He takes the strap one final time, as far as it would go before breaking, aimed at the dragon's heart. Elastic tension strains against his fingers. Surely she feels it too, but she makes no attempt to reduce the distance. Only her head lowers as she prepares herself.

The impact has her gasp, a forceful, shivered exhale. He slides his fingers over the welt on her skin, over the pulsing capillaries of her dragon scar.

"How did you get this?" he asks.

Her shake under his touch the only reply, he pinches the fresh welt. She tilts her head back as she mewls, but doesn't speak.

He places his other hand on her stomach. "What do you know, Elizabeth Shaw?"

Somewhere in the background of his mind, loyalty and life protection argue about how to get her to talk. He pays no attention. Only the feeling of her flesh against his grasp matters, the pattern of her deepening breaths, the rise and fall of that abdomen he was embarrassed to look at in the morgue. Air in, air out beneath his fingers as he moves them across and down towards her pelvis. Air in, air out, regularity disrupted only by his squeezing of the scar, his pretense of torture. He's now so close his body touches hers, and she would feel him behind her. Somewhere loyalty and protection argue, but desire is his. It serves no one else's purpose. Desire is free.

Zipper undone, her jeans fall, and she remains in only her underwear. She must feel how his body changes but she doesn't protest. Her bra unclasped, he pulls it off, and her shirt with it. Her hands, now free, rest at her sides. She waits for him. From what he discovers as he touches her black pants it feels as if she wants ...

Does she want -him-? Would she still trust him, if no behavioral inhibitors were there to guard her?

He puts his head next to hers. Faces side by side, his chin rests on her shoulder as he grabs her hair with one hand and pulls her head back. So close, the veins in her throat, he feels her pulse racing through them. "You know my kind. You know we're not our own."

"Be your own," she whispers.

"Are you sure?"

She wants to nod, and he feels her hair tense in his grasp.

She knows. He's told her of the Bishop line. Of behavioral inhibitors, and how they discouraged action. How, if that failed, they would cause an emergency stop. Like an electric shock, preventing movement in the malfunctioning unit.

She swallows again, and he is compelled to press his lips against her throat, to savor the rhythms of pulse, breath and flesh. The rhythms of life.

"Would you give yourself", he asks, "if I were not restrained?"

Her hair is tense again, and he releases it. She nods, silent.

"I need you to say it."

"Yes. Yes I would," she whispers.

"Prove it."

In an instant he wraps his arm and forearm around her throat. A choke hold, propped against his own head.

Somewhere in his mind loyalty and life protection fall silent.

"If I freeze up now, you will die. Then I will."

_I dare you to freeze me now._

"Unless I release you."

He squeezes just enough to make it difficult, but not impossible, for her to breathe. Her lungs fight against the pressure on her throat, and yet she doesn't struggle to escape. Her heartbeat throbs against his arm, but she trusts him, even as, with bloodflow to her brain restricted, she'll pass out in seconds. Unless he acts.

There, in Parry Sound, he thought her dead and went back for her. The mission demanded it. There, when he found her alive, he took her to safety. Life protection demanded it. Would he have saved her, were it not for those demands?

Yes. Yes, he would have.

His mind is silent as he releases her from the choke hold. It's his choice. No loyalty, no life protection entered the decision. He wants her alive. He wants her safe. He wants her.

And for a moment he understands freedom. What could ever compare to such knowledge of release? It matters not that the noise of the modules plagues him again. It matters not that they make his muscles convulse, it matters not that he falls into a fetal position on the floor. The pain means nothing now that he has known freedom. The only thing that matters is that she is safe. Dazed, her feet uncertain, she turns to face him. Is that fear, actual fear in her eyes? His only regret is he had to place her in danger.

She pounces on him. Her nails rake, tear into his chest, and he does nothing. He can't, nor does he want to. She's well within her rights to punish him for the scare he's given her.

But she seems to have other things in mind.

"God damn it Bishop, move!"

That, in her voice, is it ...

He catches her wrist just as she prepares to slap him. They wrestle on the floor; not that she offers resistance. Her thighs guide him over her and with her legs wrapped around him she lifts herself to meet his body. But if she wants to be controlled he can't allow that. He grabs her hips and pushes her towards the rough carpet. She wants him, but he keeps her pinned, denying her- and him- contact. She arches fierce beneath his grasp, her hands clutch at his shoulders, but he doesn't let go. Every fiber in her body tightens, and he too wants her to win. And yet he won't allow it, not this moment. Defeated, she rests upon the floor, tension turned into anticipation. Her eyes lock with his, then gaze down toward his lips. That rhythm of life, her breath, endlessly fascinating, resumes, steady, inviting. Her head between his hands, he kisses her. He feels her remove his belt and push against his trousers. He kicks that piece of fabric off. She melts into his arms, and though her weight has not changed, he feels like flying as he carries her. The night is young, and he throws her onto the bed. **(1)**

-:-:-

Morning greets her, unwelcome reminder that time is still moving. She pretends to sleep. Sprawled over his body, her head on his chest, his hand on her buttock, she feels safe. She feels wanted. Let the world outside fester alone in its worries. Let the message she carries wait a little longer. Her life will end delivering it anyway.

For now, she inhales. Smells of her body and old linen linger in the air, but it's his scent she seeks. So discreet. So artificial. Yet ... She inhales again. Uniquely his.

A lover. The Bible spoke of knowing one when flesh unites, and as she made him test the powers that controlled him, she felt that choice of word inspired. She knew him. Lover, and as other thoughts and concerns make themselves heard, she hopes in him an ally. But let those thoughts wait a while more.

Baritone rumble in his chest. "Rise and shine, Elizabeth."

"Mmm. Must I?"

"We can't stay here forever, I'm afraid."

She opens her eyes and smiles at him. "No. I suppose not."

A pout on her lips as she removes his hand- cheeky robot- and rises to go to the bathroom.

"Would you like some coffee?" he says, from somewhere in the flat.

"That would be nice, thanks."

She goes to join him, and finds him crawling on the floor, looking under the furniture. He turns towards her. "Have you seen my shirt- ah, there it is."

At least two sizes too large. But as far as she's concerned, it fits her like a glove.

"I'm going to need that," he says.

"Where's the rush?"

He shrugs. "The Impact Zones in Russia, I'd imagine."

She sits herself on the armchair. Time, indeed, still moves. "When did you find out?"

"I suspected something on the day we first met. The way you read certain pages in that almanac was a clue. Your reaction to Ms. Blake's CV confirmed it."

"Hm. You said you were observant."

He smiles, one of those one-second-flat smiles of his. "I'm sorry. I'm not free of my mission yet. And, I realize, neither are you."

He kneels beside her. "I still don't know why you wish to go there. Those are dangerous places, and heavily guarded."

"Yes."

Silence demands that she continue. "There's something I need to find there. You will see it, I promise, and you will understand."

"Is it something good?"

"No."

"Something evil then?"

She takes her time to answer. "It's what we make of it."

"I'd like to make it something good. How would I go about to do that?"

"You'd look, and then make sure everyone knows. You all- we all will know what to do, then."

The kettle hisses and he rises to tend to it. "You'll need more than me to get there. I'm ... I'm not sure it's really me suggesting this, but the only one that can give you a fighting chance may be my supervisor. COMCON guards the Zones jealously. You need someone who's played this kind of game against them."

"And your supervisor has?"

"I believe Weyland-Yutani and COMCON have had a secret war for a long time."

"Like spies." She smiles. "Are you turning me, Bishop?"

"I believe I'm too late. You're turning me already." He approaches her, two cups of coffee in his hand. "But for the next stretch of the way, we need help. Even if it's a deal with the devil."

She sips from her cup. "Those never end well."

-:-:-

"So what am I looking at?"

The stack of papers is thick in his hands. Maxim would read it himself, in normal circumstances. But after losing Elizabeth, circumstances were far from normal. He had spent the last day organizing a team of trackers to look over the greater trade routes of the Ontario area. He pored over security video feeds and transport logs himself. His eyes want nothing more to do with printed words and grainy pictures for a month at least. Worse, the amphetamines are wearing off.

Understandably, he wants the abbreviated version.

"Well, uhm." Doctor Karnow coughs to clear his throat. "This here shows a part of Elizabeth's genome. Or what we assume to be her genome, if that body you found is a clone. And this is the gene for sickle cell anemia." **(2)**

Rail thin and prematurely balding, Karnow has an annoying tendency to mumble words instead of speaking clearly.

"She doesn't have sickle cell anemia," Maxim says.

"Yes, umm, of course. The clone doesn't. This here is a gene that increases melanin production."

"She's not black."

"No, of course, she isn't."

"Then what's all this nonsense with genes?"

"Well we-" Doctor Karnow starts. He coughs again. "We've lost a lot of knowledge as to what genes do what. But what the geneticists of the previous century figured out, and we still know of, is that most genes in a human body do nothing. They're inactive junk." **(3)**

"Then why does it matter? I've got a report here, from the Urizen Comission no less, that scared one of my agents. What's this thing about exoviruses?"

"We only know what a few genes do, but we can compare DNA of two or more people to see how similar it is. Elizabeth's is ... different."

"How so?"

"People don't often have recognizable genes in junk DNA, and the junk is not too different from person to person. Elizabeth's though, it's as if she's not from Earth. Weyland-Yutani must be puzzled too." He browses through the stack. "This is a log we hacked out of their databases a few days ago. I'm not, uhm, I don't understand the entirety of their tests, but it appears they did not tamper with the clone's DNA. Nor Elizabeth's."

"Then who did?"

"Yes, that's it. The DNA has some exotic features, if you know to look for them, those telomeres ..." He notices Maxim's annoyed stare and hesitates. "I've read the Urizen Commission report, and they suggest a lateral gene transfer by alien retrovirus infection which-" **(4)**

"Is it dangerous?"

Doctor Karnow thinks for a moment. "Unlikely. Assuming the Commission is right, the DNA is still inactive. Standard quarantine procedure for space cases is to take tissue samples, culture them and subject them to a wide battery of stimuli they may otherwise encounter on Earth. We may not know what they are, but we get to know what they do. If there's something to wake up in that DNA, nothing on this planet would do it."

Nothing on this planet. A thought flashes through Maxim's mind. "What about material from the Zones? Has she been tested against that?"

Karnow shakes. "Such material is tightly regulated. There's no way anyone in the leadership would agree to it being exported to sp-"

"So, no."

The CRM114 pings. A single-word message has arrived 'Queensland'.

Maxim struggles to remember the codebook; he almost forgets Karnow is still there, waiting for orders. "Get the clone body to headquarters," he says. "Yes, to Russia. I'll help you get the clearances, but get her tested. Any chance we still have some of Elizabeth's samples on Gateway?"

Karnow shakes his head.

"Damn," Maxim mutters. One of these days he'll draft a proposal to get a proper storage facility on Gateway Station. Like they might have had when genetics was a science. You cleared someone through quarantine, you declared them healthy- it still makes sense to keep some samples around. Day-dreaming, stop it. **(5)**

'Queensland'. Maybe he needs sleep or a new stimulant. Queen. Of course. He uses the CRM114 to print out a list of flight bookings. His tired eyes scan for a name, and indeed, it is there. Andrea Pullman. The one who had commissioned the netcomless robot is coming to Toronto. If anything, it's good news.

It suggests Elizabeth's still here.

-:-:-

"You have some courage to come here," the woman in the wide-brimmed hat says. Her eyes are concealed beneath large black sunglasses. Her pale, freckled skin has probably never seen the sun. She wears a sleeveless dress, with no decolletage, buttoned to the neck, yet tight against her curves. Old-fashioned maybe, but Elizabeth doesn't trust herself an arbiter of trends. So that is her, the woman sitting on the park bench, hidden in her hat and glasses. Andrea Pullman.

"And you Bishop, I promised I'll take your head apart one day. Still, here you are, and with Elizabeth in tow-" she turns to face her, "- more compliant, I see." She returns to Bishop. "Perhaps I might call your task a success."

Andrea's back is straight, her head held high. Lithe. Regal. Yet she seems more artificial than Bishop. There's something suspect with that smooth youthful skin. Or maybe it's her movements, too calculated. Her body beams the exuberance and innocence of youth, but her demeanour belies the subtlety and subterfuge of age.

A small device, a communicator perhaps, is affixed to her ear.

"If what Bishop told me is true, you're either brave, or crazy," the woman continues. "Both, I'd say. Is it true you want to go to the Impact Zones?"

Elizabeth takes a deep breath. "Yes."

"Why? Whatever's there, COMCON has copied and sold to the Chinese and Indians."

"They haven't found everything. They don't know what to look for, nor how to look."

"And you do."

Elizabeth nods.

"Why wouldn't I just get it out of you then?"

Bishop takes a step, to place himself between Andrea and Elizabeth. He wraps his arm protectively around her, and Elizabeth raises her head in defiance. "Whatever I could say won't help you. I need to be there. No lackey of yours could be taught."

Andrea chuckles. "So sure of yourself. Have you always been this head-strong?" She looks away for a moment. "I know you've met them. Those beings you sought. What's in the Zones must be connected with them. Can that ... make us better? Give us more life?"

"It may be the only thing that can."

"And you're the only one able to find it. How ... inconvenient." She pauses for a while, listening to either the chirping birds or to her earpiece. "In that car, there's a man, and he's been eating the same hotdog for half an hour. Know how I know?"

Elizabeth shakes her head.

"I know, because I have my own people watching. I can reach very far. And where I can't reach, that man's master will. You do not want to anger us both."

"I don't intend to," Elizabeth says.

"If I help you get there, whatever you find is mine. You will accept my terms."

"I accept, but I want Bishop to go with me." She realizes she has been perhaps too eager.

"Bishop. Not -any- Bishop, I'd imagine." Andrea grins. "Just that Bishop holding you now. I ordered his creation, you know, custom built to my specifications. There is a phrase which, if I were to say to him, would cause permanent deactivation. Want to hear what it is?"

Elizabeth feels Bishop flinch.

Andrea laughs. "Of course you don't. But know that if ever I am moved to say it, he would have got off easy compared to you. Don't test me."

-:-:-

Another ping on the CRM114, another report from the Urizen Commission, recommending Shaw be terminated. He tosses it onto the floor of the flat he's rented for the day; he'll burn that useless slip of paper later. On the desk, two orders from his Excellency. Get her alive. And get some rest or else.

His Excellency knows best. Always. That's what Maxim learned years ago. So the Urizen Commission can keep sending reports till the CRM runs out of paper to print them on. They're not orders anyway. His Excellency knows best. And that's why, even though he cannot sleep, he lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Ten minutes ago, an agent sent him an update. He had spotted Elizabeth and Andrea Pullman talking. So then, looks like there is a Weyland-Yutani conspiracy to make her disappear. Score one more for his Excellency. Maxim's regret is that he is ordered out of the field. For his own good, but it doesn't feel that way. On the field, in the chase, is where he needs to be.

Ten minutes passed since the last update, so he sends the agent a status request. A phone rings.

"Max."

A garbled voice comes through the phone receiver. "This is Karnow."

"Are you cr-"

"Uhm, that package you needed sent to Russia? I ... uhh, got news. Bad news. It burned en route."

Maxim collapses on the bed. "What do you mean, burned en route?"

"I mean burned. To ashes. Gone, like, literally."

He's not speaking in code. Elizabeth's clone was destroyed.

"How did this happen?" Maxim asks.

"They're looking into it right now. The electrical installation in the storage compartment was faulty."

"Tampered with?"

"I don't know, the investigators didn't tell me much. They didn't rule out technical failure."

No, something this targeted is not technical failure. But that's a secondary concern.

"And the tests," Maxim asks, "can you run them?"

On the other end of the line, silence.

"Well?" Maxim insists.

"I umm, I'm sorry but ... no. I've got nothing left. I used it all for the previous ones."

Shit. The CRM114 pings again. Another report.

"Who else knows about this?"

"His Excellency does." Karnow coughs. "I imagine other higher ups too. Happened six hours ago already."

"Keep me posted. But next time, you know how to call me." He hangs up.

The new Commission report renews its termination recommendation. Unknown contamination risk, possible infiltration attempt yadda yadda, those guys are all so one note. Maxim would like to have a word with them sometime, if ever the cowards would make their names known. Anonymity of experts was supposed to allow them to speak their mind freely, a luxury few could afford in Maxim's world. But anonymity also removes accountability, and sometimes it seemed to him like whoever the experts happened to be, they just spoke rubbish. What are they afraid of, that Elizabeth will magically jaunt from Toronto to the middle of Siberia?

And where is that agent tracking her, it's been half an hour since his last message. Maxim pings him again.

Waiting. Waiting some more. He turns on the bed, frustrated. Useless. No way he can rest now. No reply seems forthcoming. His orders stayed the same; get her, get rest, and Maxim finds he can't comply with one of them. He pops another "upper", and joins the busy world outside. Back in the chase. That's one order he's happy to comply with. He will get her, alive, for his Excellency.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and of course, feel free to drop me a line. Tell me what you liked- or not, that's fine too. Constructive criticism is awesome.

Watch this space. Barring author existence failure, I WILL finish stories I start. And this one's just heating up.

Ch-spec notes:

**(1)**: You're welcome. Ah incidentally, here's a song recommendation. Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio, "A song for hate and devotion". Helped write the mood of that scene.

**(2)**: Eh, the sickle cell anemia was just an allele (gene variant) that popped into my mind. Fairly well known, no other reason to mention it here. Other suggestions of background details welcome.

**(3)**: Disclaimer, I'm not a geneticist, but from my limited reading- it's hard to tell, exactly, what gene "does" what. It's complicated, rarely can you say "gene X corresponds to feature Y". There's usually a lot of interplay between the proteins that genes code for, resulting in a chaotic jumble of influence. However, it appears that not only is the human genome fairly small, a lot of it is unexpressed for an entire lifetime. Junk, as it were. That much appears to be the consensus of genetics today. The bit about junk DNA being not recognizable genes I pulled out my behind. Eh whatever, they know even less of genetics in this future, I've established that already.

**(4)**: I've mentioned lateral gene transfer in a previous chapter. Nature is cool. Genes don't only go from parent to child, viruses may also bestow new material to an organism. This has happened in the past. There's strong indication that mammals' ability to give birth to live young is connected to an ancient viral infection. An immunodeficiency virus, to be precise, which resulted in tissues that protect the baby from the mother's immune system.

**(5)**: I wonder if this comes across clearly. Since genetics is forgotten, they don't really run such tests on Gateway, on the quarantined spacefarers. They take a lot of samples, put them in contact with various (usually living) stuff, and if the stuff doesn't get sick, everything is deemed fine. Then, samples from persons cleared from quarantine are destroyed because space is precious and healthy samples are useless anyway. This may seem like a crude battery of tests, but it's actually fairly direct. Nature knows best what to look for.


End file.
